


Connection

by Devonwood



Category: Glee
Genre: Blaine Big Bang, Fandom/Fanfiction AU, M/M, and sexual assault relating to canon events between Kurt and Karofsky in NBK, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 11:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18637363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devonwood/pseuds/Devonwood
Summary: The Chase/Devon cheating plotline that dominates the season four winter finale of Sing rocks the fandom to its core. Fortunately, the Chevon Big Bang sign-up date coincides with the dark, wank-filled times, and thanks to an old beta services post in the now-defunct Chase-Devon Livejournal community, Blaine finds himself with a full plate during the hiatus. He has practice for show choir sectionals, drabbles to write under AU photosets that crop up on his dash, and now a twenty-five-thousand word Chase/Devon fix-it fic to beta for Kurt, moderator of the Fashion of Sing! blog and fandom personality known for his often passive-aggressive episode commentary. Fortunately, the last one takes Blaine in directions he hadn't expected when he signed up for Tumblr and followed his first Sing blog.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal September 2013.
> 
> This fic was an effort and a half, so I am eternally thankful to everyone who helped me along the way. To idoltina and a_glass_parade for being wonderful, fantabulous betas who dealt with my general panic and eleventh hour-ness while trying to get this show on the road. To whenidance, Danielle, Nakiya, and everyone else for yelling at me and cheerleading me and putting up with my gratuitous whiny text posts for the past three months. To ayodelle for the absolutely stunning artwork, for which I am eternally grateful, and of which I am eternally jealous. Oddly enough (considering I do not watch Merlin) I am also thankful to this Merlin Kink Meme fill for giving me the idea to poke a little fun at fandom by writing about fandom. There are some additional notes at the end of the epilogue.

 

 

sparklingtheaterofexcess

Well, my darlings, I have finally fallen out of love with _Sing_. I stuck with them through last summer’s Devon-is-a-Junior-gate that rocked the fandom boat (or rather, the _ship_ ). I endured the weeks where the costume designer was on vacation and people meta-ed tirelessly about what Devon’s missing ascots meant for his emotional state. I thought, “Oh, maybe things will be on the upswing now,” after that whole harebrained emotional cheating debacle with Chase and the Shane Dawson-lookalike at the music store. I even contained my righteous fury after all the couples were shown kissing in the finale except The Gays(tm). And contrary to popular Tumblr rumor, I did _not_ burn Bryan Collins in effigy--though I did make a strikingly similar yet kitschy voodoo doll that I found in the DIY tag a few months ago.

But this? This was the last straw.

I, along with most of the fandom, refused to believe the initial rumors of an actual cheating plot between Devon and Chase. Surely, the boy who looked like a wounded animal after Chase texted another guy wouldn’t turn around and boink some Chatroulette hunk a few months later! That was too out of character and improbable, even by _Sing_ ’s remarkably low standards for characterization and continuity. Then tonight, along with all of you, I sat in rapt horror and fascination because yes, _Sing_ actually was going to go there. I’ve lost all sense of eloquence and decorum. In the immortal words of Tumblr: “I can’t.”

I see there are already some lost hopefuls on my dash trying to meta around what can’t be explained any other way than a poor writing decision by a failing show’s writers desperately trying to claw fleeing viewers back into their clutches like rabid wolves. I don’t know if I have the strength to sigh loudly enough at the all the straw-grasping. I grow _weary_.

Fortunately, I have a packed day-planner this week, what with show choir sectionals (a plotline that _Sing_ seems to have forgotten in favor of unrealistic couples drama--nope, not going to get bitchy tonight, I promise), my father’s upcoming nuptials, and outfits from tonight’s episode to find on the internet (because fortunately everyone looked well-dressed, even when singing-crying, and _Fashion of Sing_ doesn’t run itself, you know).

I’m not leaving, just taking a step back to refocus, recenter, and regroup. And finally rework my way through the lesbian drama of America’s Next Top Model Cycle 5. Delightful.

[#not](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23not) enough cheesecake in the world [#sing](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23sing) wank for your blacklists

6 Notes  Reblog   [Heart]

-

partfalseparttrue

Oh, wow.

_devonpouting.gif_

I wasn’t prepared for tonight’s episode. After reading the initial spoilers, I stopped digging up information about this episode, trying to distance myself a little from something I knew was going to be painful. But I still wasn’t prepared for how much the “I’m fine,” “You’re not fine,” exchange _hurt_ , especially after Devon’s emotional reprise at the bar. I don’t even know if I can write a reaction fic to this episode, because I’m so sad.

It’s just, Devon and Chase were the epitome of true love. If they can’t make it, what hope do any of us have?

If anyone wants to talk about this episode, my ask is always open. Let’s cry it out together, fandom.

_tennantsobbing.gif_

[#i](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23i) will go down with this ship [#chevon](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23chevon) feels

17 Notes   Reblog   [Heart]

-

partfalseparttrue

**Title:** From This Moment On  
**Author:** partfalseparttrue  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** ~330  
**Summary:** When Devon pulls back from the kiss, mouth still buzzing with sensation and anticipation, his heart explodes quietly in his chest at the things he feels for this boy.  
**Author’s Note:** I’ve decided that the best way to move forward is to go backwards, to a time when everything was new boyfriends discovering the things that make them twitterpated about each other. Just a quick little unbeta’ed _thing_ to get me back in the writing mindset. Title is from the Shania Twain song of the same name.

`When Devon pulls back from the kiss, mouth still buzzing with sensation and anticipation, his heart explodes quietly in his chest at the things he feels for this boy. They are sudden and intense, perhaps bubbling and coiling under the surface for months before he realized what Chase means to him, but now bursting from him wild and carefree and unconstrained. He _feels_ things, wonderful things, and Devon is more than a bit overwhelmed how consumed he is by them.

Devon sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, follows the taste of Chase across his tongue as he sits heavily again at the table, knees bouncing in nervous anticipation. “So uh,” he says, scrubbing his left hand across his eyes. “That happened.”

Chase makes a shushing noise, eyes closed, long fingers curled into a _one moment_ gesture in front of his upturned face. “I’m trying to savor the moment I’ve been dreaming about for months.” He opens his eyes, then, a flush spreading from his high cheekbones down to the base of his neck. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

And Devon should probably be a little weirded out, but he’s a teenage boy, and the idea that Chase has been fantasizing about this moment (well, perhaps not _this_ moment, leaning over the bird-sized casket of poor Luciano)? It’s more than a little hot. “Don’t be embarrassed,” Devon says, placing one hand on top of Chase’s on the table, his knees still bouncing like they’re not controlled by his body. “I’m just kicking myself about all the time we’ve wasted.”

There’s a peculiar look in Chase’s eye, one that Devon hasn’t seen before but wants to become familiar with. It’s almost a smoulder, and Devon feels the back of his neck prickle in unashamed want. It’s a heady feeling. “Better make up for lost time, then,” Chase says, leaning in with a hand cupping Devon’s jaw, and Devon gasps his agreement into the gentle pressure of Chase’s mouth.

[#chevon](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23chevon) [#my](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23my) fic [#take](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23take) me back to the start~

434 Notes   Reblog   [Heart]

-

sparklingtheaterofexcess

I hope you all have enjoyed the copious spam of Devon’s wonderful, ahem, _assets_ over the past few days. I don’t know about you, but it certainly cheered me up.

I’ve been thinking long and hard about what I want to do over this hiatus since I’ve already made enough passive aggressive text posts to last a lifetime and it’s only been three days, and I think I’m going to try something a little different. _Fashion of Sing_ will still continue to hunt for those pesky missing outfits (I’m looking at you, Chase’s adorable winter hat from season two), and I will continue to offer my witty repartee when new _Sing_ set photos and spoilers emerge, but I’ve started a little pet project that won’t see the light of day for another few months.

That’s right, my darlings--I’ve signed up for the Chevon Big Bang over at Livejournal (may it rest in peace). I’ve never written anything intended for an audience before (though last night I did have a rather spectacular dream about a Pippa Middleton musical that I need to jot down before I forget), so this is going to be an exciting, scary whirlwind of a time. I hate admitting when I’m out of my comfort zone, but.

_laptopdognoideawhatimdoing.png_

I have no idea for plot, no idea for _anything_ except I want to get in Devon’s head and figure out what the hell makes him tick this season. Is this a bass-awkwards way for me to meta around a poor writing decision by justifying it with completely-made-up-yet-slightly-believable characterization on behalf of little gestures and pauses in conversation that are one hundred percent acting choices and not writing decisions? You bet your backwards ass it is.

The fruits of my labor (almost typed _loins_ , I am spending too much time on this website...) won’t be posted until March, which gives me a lot of time to figure out what I’m actually doing with this thing. Signups close tomorrow, so if anyone else would like to join me on this wild ride, you can read the rules and join the Chevon Big Bang here.

[#this](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23this) can only end poorly [#what](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23what) have I gotten myself into? [#forever](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23forever) bitter over that winter hat

15 Notes   Reblog   [Heart]


	2. Chapter 1

_Two weeks later_  
  
Blaine jolts awake at precisely five-thirty a.m. to the sound of “Love is the Drug” blaring from his iPhone’s speakers, and, like he does every morning, he rubs the sleep crust from his eyes, rolls onto his side, grabs his phone, and opens the Tumblr app to see what happened in the fandom while he was asleep. Being a high school boy living in the Eastern Standard Timezone means he misses a lot of crucial  _Sing_ -related information that happens while the cast and crew in Los Angeles are wide awake and, in most cases, still filming, and he doesn’t have a moderately successful blog in a very specific subset of the fandom by missing important updates about his faves.  
  
Blaine hadn’t set out to have a moderately successful blog at all, but the pilot of  _Sing_  had drawn him in like a moth to a flickering porch light. There may have only been three boys in his eighth grade choir class when it first aired--most of them dropping like flies once singing was declared “uncool,” and, in most instances, “fruity”--but  _Sing_  was an instant hit with people around the globe from all backgrounds and high school social classes. At first, Blaine thought it was just a satirical and absurdist version of the reality he faced every day as a student also involved in the Midwestern show choir circuit. But it wasn’t until freshman year, Blaine’s voice cracking in rehearsals and his heart full to the brim with feelings for a sophomore drama club student, that Chase’s tearful coming out story to his father really cemented Blaine’s love for the quirky show.  
  
With his increased, almost obsessive, interest in  _Sing_  came the frustration that his friends--first at his old high school and then at Dalton--didn’t watch the show the same way he did (Nick couldn’t even name all of Chase’s few-but-beautiful solos, when those were clearly the  _best_  part of any episode). The Warblers were supportive of his interests in an almost manic yet robotic way, but Blaine wanted to interact with other people who  _felt_  things because of the show. Which is how he ended up posting gifs from his “Emotional” folder every Tuesday night at nine pm along with everyone else on Tumblr. He’s still not sure how his silly little drabbles posted right after the episodes and AU ideas and occasional bowtie appreciation posts warrant over a thousand followers, but he’s happy they all decided to stick around and send him emotional Chevon messages every once in awhile.  
  
Blaine thumbs over to his inbox, answering the three questions about his reaction to recent Chevon speculation, before scrolling back a couple hours through his dash. He doesn’t see any spoilers or behind the scenes photos that are particularly riot-worthy, but he places a new photoset comparison of Chase in season one to season four in his queue to be reblogged later. One of Blaine’s favorite smut authors has posted a new drabble about Chase and Devon dabbling in a bit of phone sex, though, and Blaine gasps, rolling over onto his back and opening the link in Safari so it doesn’t crash the Tumblr app. It’s mind-meltingly hot, just as he knew it would be, though at barely six in the morning he doesn’t have the time or desire for anything other than lightly scratching at the hair on his lower belly while he uses his other hand to reblog with fanboying in the tags.  
  
When a crash from the kitchen startles Blaine out of his Tumblr-induced coma, he checks the time on his phone. Six-thirty a.m. He’s not sure how an entire  _hour_  went by when it feels like he’s only been awake for five minutes, but Blaine groans and flings off his bedspread in a dramatic fashion. He’ll have to settle for an express gel to make up for lost time, but reading that fic before starting his day was worth the few stray hairs that will poke out of their hold by Warblers rehearsal. The Windsor knot of his red and blue striped tie sits firmly at the base of Blaine’s throat, and his Dalton blazer slides over his shoulders just as his mother hollers up the stairs to  _hurry along,_ t’otoy.  
  
Blaine doesn't think about  _Sing_  again until lunch, his morning full with choreography for Sectionals ("It's step-step-slide, Thad, not step-slide-step!") and new harmony arrangements to memorize, because while  _Sing_  is a major part of Blaine's life, he's careful to keep his worlds separate. Of course, it doesn't always happen--sometimes Blaine will blog about show choir competitions or the itchiness of private school uniforms in un-capitalized and un-punctuated text posts, and sometimes he will jot the first few lines of a Chevon barista meet-cute AU in the margins of his Pre-Calculus notebook. However, while Blaine's Warbler friends are aware that Blaine has a blog and that it is "just a silly thing about  _Sing_ , guys, you don't want to follow me, trust me," they know neither the extent nor the url, and Blaine prefers to keep it that way.  
  
The dining room is full by the time Blaine’s English class lets out, but as always, he has a seat saved at the Warblers’ lunch table. It’s a strange feeling, having a guaranteed seat, one that Blaine still isn’t used to after almost a year at Dalton. At his old school, Blaine’s goal was making it through lunch with his show choir friends without hearing someone snicker behind his back.  
  
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Blaine says, sitting down once Trent removes his notebooks from the empty chair before returning to look at his textbook. Blaine pulls a Tupperware container of chicken caesar salad from his messenger bag, placing it on the table before popping a crouton into his mouth. While he chews, he cuts his lettuce into smaller pieces with his knife and fork.  
  
“Blaine,” David says, leaning forward to catch Blaine’s attention from the other end of the table, “while your suggestion of songs traditionally done by female artists is definitely a good one, and one that will surprise and impact the judges, we’re not sure that the applicable songs in our repertoire are polished enough for Sectionals. We think those would be a better fit at Regionals, once we have had months to practice.”  
  
Blaine chews, swallows, takes a moment to sit up straighter. “Very well, then. Though,” he adds, smiling, “let it go on the record that I will be campaigning for a P!nk song in eight part harmony.”  
  
“Let’s get through Sectionals first,” Wes suggests. “We still haven’t finalized decisions on the set, and it’s only a week away. The Warblers haven’t been this unprepared for a competition since 1974, when the fire that burned down the South Hall only left three days to prepare for Regionals in a singed common room.”  
  
As the other Warblers politely argue the order of their Sectionals set list for the third time in as many days, Blaine sneaks his iPhone under the table and cradles his head in his hand so he can see the screen. His dashboard is still fairly calm, though most of the people Blaine follows are either in school or asleep now, anyway. He's not sure why he even bothers checking, but it's become his surreptitious lunchtime ritual. Blaine does notice that his little notifications tab is lit up, revealing that he has a new message since he last checked this morning.  
  


>  
> 
> _sparklingtheaterofexcess asked:_
> 
> _Hello, partfalseparttrue. I don’t think we’ve ever interacted and I don’t actually follow you, so now that I’m typing this it seems a little more rude and crazier than I’d intended, but I found your url in an old beta post on the Chase_Devon Livejournal Community, and I wanted to see if you were still available as a beta for the Chevon Big Bang? I’ve never written anything before and decided to put the cart before the horse and start with a twenty-five thousand word magnum opus about Chase and Devon falling back in love. Besides the fact that I’ve already written more words than I did for my entire Sophomore year English class and furthermore am woefully overwhelmed, I have no idea how this whole big bang process works._
> 
> Would you mind taking a look at what I have so far to let me know if you’re interested? Thank you, I’d really appreciate it.

  
  
  
  
Blaine raises his eyebrows. He’s heard of sparklingtheaterofexcess, but doesn’t follow him either, though he does follow  _Fashion of Sing_  for when they find bits and pieces of Devon’s stellar wardrobe. Their paths don’t cross often--Blaine isn’t into reading meta that makes him feel negatively about  _Sing_ , and he’s never seen sparklingtheaterofexcess reblog one of his fics or talk to the acquaintances Blaine’s made online. Blaine doesn’t really know the blogger he’s dealing with. If he were home, he’d do a bit of blog-stalking, but Tumblr mobile doesn’t allow for poking and prodding around. Instead, he clicks through to his blog and clicks on the “Ask” link.  
  


>  
> 
> _Hello, sparklingtheaterofexcess! Wow, you certainly don’t do things by halves! I’ve never written a Big Bang before. Started once, but sadly had to drop out, so I know just how hard it can be to keep the energy and word count going. I’ll take a look at what you’ve got so far, though it may take a few days because rehearsals for show choir Sectionals are taking over my life this week (and hopefully for the next few months, if we make it to Regionals). I can’t make any promises about beta-ing the whole thing, but let me send you my gmail so you can just add me to the doc._

  
  
  
  
As much as Blaine enjoys grammatically correct sentences and fanfiction over twenty-five thousand words, he’s not sure he has time to tackle a beta job as serious and lengthy as the Chevon Big Bang. In addition, there’d been an unlucky string of beta work a few months back that had left a sour taste in his mouth about the whole process, with several authors in a row who requested help and then wouldn’t take his advice about anything from comma splices to unnecessary introspection.  
  
"Warbler Blaine, what do you think?"  
  
Blaine looks up to see David staring at him expectantly, his look mirrored on the other Warblers at the table. Blaine hasn't heard a single word of the disagreement. He presses the 'send' button and sits up straight, coming up on the fly with the most neutral, unassuming answer he can.  
  
"Well," he says, giving his voice the slight upper-crust affectation his brother Cooper had once said sounded important, "I believe the Council has the group's best interest at heart, so I must defer to their decision on the matter. And any counter-argument should take place at a meeting where it will be recorded in the minutes, not at lunch when Trent is trying to study for his English test."  
  
Trent shoots Blaine an appreciative look before turning back to his textbook, and the other Warblers murmur between themselves.  
  
"Well said, Warbler Blaine," Wes says, nodding his approval. “We will continue this discussion at rehearsal this afternoon.”  
  
Blaine closes the Tumblr app and slides his phone into his pocket, where it remains for the rest of the day, lest he show his Dalton friends any less than the appearance of a perfect Dalton gentleman.  
  
\---  
  
Blaine and his mother are just about to start eating their steadily cooling dinner of grilled salmon, rice, and mixed vegetables when he hears the garage door open, signaling his father's arrival home. With a sigh, he sets his fork down and straightens the napkin on his lap while his mother pours his father a glass of lemonade from the pitcher that's starting to sweat onto the white tablecloth.  
  
The back door opens, and Blaine can hear his father taking off his coat and boots in the mudroom off of the kitchen. There's shuffling around, the telltale sound of a briefcase thunking onto the kitchen counter, and the scent of heated wool and shoe polish Blaine's come to associate with his father.  
  
"Something smells delicious," his father says, padding into the dining room in his navy business suit and just a pair of long, brown socks. He sits at the table and begins eating immediately, salting the fish and vegetables before he even tastes them.  
  
Blaine's mother sighs, casting a look at her husband before staring intently at her own plate. "I wish you'd stop saying you'll be home at six, when you know that isn't the case, dear."  
  
"We've been married for twenty-five years, honey,” his father says, smiling like Blaine's seen him do with work associates on the golf course. “You know when I say six, I usually mean six-thirty.”  
  
His mother purses her lips. "It's seven."  
  
"Won't happen again, dear," his father says, brushing it off and giving Blaine a look that Blaine supposes is guy code for, "Women, am I right?" but Blaine just nods politely and takes a bite of lukewarm rice.  
  
Blaine wants to comment on the whole exchange, how his mother stabs her fish with controlled, slightly forceful movements while his father chews away, oblivious, but he bites his tongue both figuratively and literally. Anderson family dinners are generally happier for all parties involved if Blaine follows the adage,  _children should be seen and not heard_ , begun when Blaine was a young child and Cooper would mock him for babbling about superheros and nice clothes and female pop artists, and continued once Cooper jetted off to Los Angeles and Blaine landed in the hospital after attending a school dance with another boy.  
  
His father and mother chat politely about their day, Blaine making the appropriate noises whenever necessary while he eats. He gets all the way to dessert before being directly addressed, in the home stretch halfway through his dish of caramel flan.  
  
"The new human resources manager started today," his father says. "Seems like a nice guy. I chatted with him for a bit-- he just moved from Ann Arbor, but I won't hold that against him. He has two daughters, one finishing up her degree at Oberlin, and the other who's going to be a junior at Westerville South."  
  
And oh, Blaine can see where this is going. His mouth goes dry, chalky, and he takes another bite of flan.  
  
"He said she doesn't really have any friends in the area yet, and seemed delighted when I told him I had a teenage son who'd be willing to show her around," his father says, waving his fork in the air. "I gave him your phone number to pass along."  
  
"I'd be happy to," Blaine says. "Having a friend who's a girl would be nice." He doesn't say 'girl friend,' knowing from past experience his father would only hear 'girlfriend' and get his hopes up. "There's a double feature singalong of  _Annie, Get Your Gun_  and  _Calamity Jane_  on Friday at the revival theatre that I've--that she might like." He also doesn't say what he'd originally thought,  _that I've been dying to see_ , because no doubt it will lead either directly or indirectly to another Saturday afternoon poking away at the Chevy in the garage when all Blaine wants to do is blog about  _Sing_  in peace.  
  
Blaine's hands are trembling as he stands from table, grabs his glass and dessert plate, and places them in the sink. He takes a deep breath in the kitchen, steadying himself on the edge of the counter while he looks out the kitchen window long enough to re-center his Perfect Son mask, but not long enough for his parents to notice it slipping.  
  
"May I be excused?" he asks upon returning to the dining room.  
  
"It's your turn to do the dishes, son," Blaine's father remarks idly. Blaine bites back the comment about how it never seems to be his father's turn, instead wordlessly stacking his parents' plates to minimize the amount of trips into the kitchen.  
  
"I'll help you," his mother says, and Blaine doesn't protest, because he's not sure what will come out if he opens his mouth.  
  
Between helping his mother with the dishes, watching the evening news with his father, and finishing up the last of his chemistry lab report, it’s another two hours after dinner before Blaine can check his computer. Though his fingers automatically begin typing the Tumblr url into the address bar, he remembers sparklingtheaterofexcess’ message from earlier, backspaces, and heads to gmail first (though he does open Tumblr in a separate tab while the page takes a few seconds to load). There are two new emails from an unknown address at the top--one including a message from Google Drive announcing that a document has been shared, and one from the address alone.  
  


>  
> 
> _sparklingtheaterofexcess@gmail.com_
> 
> partfalseparttrue,
> 
> I had been writing on a Microsoft Word document, and had to figure out what you were talking about when you said “doc”. You fic writers and your fancy lingo (I still haven’t figured out the difference between “lime” and “lemon,” and something tells me I don’t want to). I’ve never used this before, but it seems like it’s saving automatically? Which is a plus since I accidentally lost about five hundred words I’d written last night.
> 
> Feel free to take your time, actually, because I also have show choir Sectionals coming up. Life imitating  _Sing_ , I suppose. There’s nothing else to do in the Midwest except football, cheerleading, and show choir.
> 
> I’m not that far yet, but I’ve shared the first chapter with you so you can take a look. This is more than a little nerve-wracking, so uh. Here. Thank you for even considering it.

  
  
  
  
Blaine chuckles to himself as he scans the email, clicks over to the next one, and opens the doc. There’s something in brackets at the top that is probably supposed to be a header--minus all the formatting, which makes Blaine cringe a little--and then text directly underneath.  
  


>  
> 
> _Chase allows himself a week to mope around the loft and eat Phish Food ice cream straight from the container before he picks himself up by his tastefully coordinated boot straps, dusts himself off (both figuratively and literally, since there’s a bit of a draft near his bedroom and all sorts of stuff blows in with the wind), and starts adding clothes from outside the mourning palette back into his fall wardrobe. He launches himself into the action of Getting Over Devon almost manically, and if Raquelle notices Chase scouring the loft from top to bottom once every three days and offering to both cook_ and _clean more often than not, she thankfully doesn’t say anything. It probably comes from a place of selfishness, but Chase appreciates being left alone since Raquelle’s advice for Getting Over Devon had been anatomically impossible and more than a little heteronormative._
> 
> _There’s a Rubbermaid box under his bed that Chase refuses to clean, packed one night with things that reminded him of Devon when he’d vacillated wildly between the ‘Denial’ and ‘Anger’ phases of his grief. Inside is the crab-patterned cravat that Devon bought when he’d been going through a jaunty sea captain phase, a picture of the two of them dancing at Chase’s senior prom--much better than his junior prom, by spades--and among other articles of clothing, an old, worn hoodie of Devon’s that no longer smelled like him because Chase had slept in it every night his first week in New York. His room feels empty without the small trinkets here and there, and if it was a little melodramatic to think that it matched how empty his heart felt, well, Chase allowed himself the bit of melodrama. And an occasional serving or two of Phish Food._

  
  
  
  
Blaine feels himself smiling, eyes crinkling, by the end of the first few paragraphs. It’s  _good_. Not great--not yet--but it  _can_ be and Blaine’s fingers itch with the potential. The author has a decent handle on Chase, which makes Blaine jealous because he has a hard time getting inside the mind of that character, figuring out what makes him tick. And it’s technically proficient, too, which makes Blaine swoon just a little bit with every comma inside the quotation marks. He scrolls down, skimming the rest, liking the general idea that sparklingtheaterofexcess is setting up: Chase is perfectly fine in New York with forgetting about Devon (or so he says), but when he comes home unexpectedly, it’s harder to stay away from the guy he’d thought was his soulmate. It’s just the fic that the fandom needs, and Blaine thinks it can be perfect.  
  
The line of text he’s reading jumps down a bit, and there’s a flicker at the bottom of the document. Blaine hadn’t expected sparklingtheaterofexcess to still be logged in, but it looks as if he is getting a jump start on outlining chapter two. He clicks over to the chat function, glad he can talk in real time instead of sending another message through Tumblr.  
  
 **partfalseparttrue** _You have yourself a beta. :)_  
  
 **sparklingtheaterofexcess**   _There’s a chat function?!  
I mean  
Yay!_  
  
 **partfalseparttrue**   _It’s really good, sparklingtheaterofexcess.  
(Do you prefer to be called sparklingtheaterofexcess?)  
(Or is there something else I can call you? I like the Scissor Sisters as much as the next gay teen, but it’s a bit of a mouthful.)_  
  
 **sparklingtheaterofexcess**   _Thank you, I appreciate it.  
(I try to keep my online identity anonymous, but it feels weird to chat one-on-one with someone using their Tumblr url, as perfect as the Scissor Sisters or whatever your url is from may be.)  
(Name for a name?)_  
  
Blaine hesitates. Some of his closer followers refer to him as PFPT, but Blaine assumes that’s less a term of endearment and more because his url is not easily shortened. He can understand sparklingtheaterofexcess’ desire for anonymity, since he has never shown his face or name to Tumblr before, and was always cautioned through school never to do such a thing. Besides that, Blaine knows how little it would take for Tumblr CSI to somehow connect his name and face to his location, and family, and the last thing Blaine wants is for the internet to discover he’s the younger brother of Cooper Anderson, Body [#3](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%233) from one of last season’s episodes of  _Criminal Minds_.  
  
There’s something about sparklingtheaterofexcess, about his writing, about his subtle humor, though, that causes Blaine to forget the countless lectures from parents and teachers and after school specials throughout the years. He wants to know this guy, and that starts with his name.  
  
 **partfalseparttrue** : _It’s a Roxy Music lyric. :) And my name’s Blaine._  
  
 **sparklingtheaterofexcess** :  _Kurt._  
  
 **partfalseparttrue** : _Nice to meet you, Kurt._  
  
“Kurt,” Blaine says, aloud in his room, placing extra emphasis on the ‘t’. He likes the way it sounds in his mouth, both hard and soft at the same time. There’d been a Curtis at Blaine’s old school who locker-checked him at least once a week, so in that funny way people do, he’d come to hate the name by association; Kurt, though, he can work with.  
  
 **partfalseparttrue** : _I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to wake up early for extra Sectionals rehearsals tomorrow._  
  
 **sparklingtheaterofexcess** :  _I know that feeling, actually. We have Sectionals coming up soon too, and I think rehearsals keep running later and later. Pretty soon they’re going to lock all the doors and turn off the lights with us still inside rehearsing “Sit Down You’re Rocking The Boat.”  
...We’re not doing “Sit Down You’re Rocking The Boat,” if you thought you’d be getting a leg up on the competition.  
...Not that we’re competition, I’m sure. One of the choirs this time around is full of octogenarians getting their GEDs, and unless you’re lying about being a sixteen year old boy, then I don’t think you’re a member..._  
  
 **partfalseparttrue** :  _Haha, I don’t think we would. We compete on the private school circuit, and I’m assuming you’re on the public? Never our paths shall cross, except in this Google Doc.  
And someone’s been reading my blog, I see._  
  
Blaine feels self-conscious, the same way he does when a new friend finds him on Facebook and he goes through all of his profile pictures trying to figure out what they’ll see when they look at him. He doesn’t feel bad, though, when he pulls up Kurt’s blog and reads back to page twelve before remembering he was in the middle of a conversation.  
  
 **sparklingtheaterofexcess** :  _Well, I had to get to your ask box somehow, didn’t I? And make sure your grammar and punctuation were up to snuff.  
I like your sidebar gif, by the way. Nothing beats Devon jumping rope in tight pants, except perhaps Devon jumping rope in no pants at all.  
...Hello?  
Are you still here?_  
  
 **partfalseparttrue** :  _Sorry, I got distracted.  
Your spam of Cheerleader!Chase was...very distracting.  
I do really need to leave, though. Can’t belt Train in eight part harmony on a tired voice.  
...Not that we’re doing Train in eight part harmony._  
  
 **sparklingtheaterofexcess** :  _Mmhmm. As long as you’re not doing a bopping rendition of “Hey, Soul Sister.”_  
  
 **partfalseparttrue** :  _….._  
  
 **sparklingtheaterofexcess** :  _THAT song? Really? Come on, Blaine._  
  
 **partfalseparttrue** :  _I’ll have you know, there’s nothing wrong with a catchy tune. And we’re very good at it. If we were competition, you’d be impressed.  
Okay, I really have to go now.  
Good night, Kurt. :)_  
  
Kurt doesn’t reply, but Blaine can see him typing away at the bottom of the document. He glances at the blinking cursor and watches a few words of Chase’s dialogue with Raquelle appear before Kurt pauses, backspaces, and starts over with something completely different. Though it’s not conducive to the editing process, Blaine enjoys watching other people create on the spot. Art in its rawest form, if he’s being rather pretentious. Mainly, he likes feeling involved from the very beginning, even if a lot of what his job entails as beta is more behind-the-scenes and custodial in nature. The cursor pauses for several moments before the next sentence, a single letter appearing every so often before blinking out of existence as quickly as it’d arrived. Blaine can picture the look on Kurt’s face even though he doesn’t know what it looks like: brow furrowed, lips pursed, chin resting on linked fingers while leaning his weight on his elbows. It’s the same look Blaine has when the right words won’t flow from his brain to his fingertips.  
  
When no new words appear for another five minutes, Blaine clicks out of the document. Perhaps Kurt went to get a glass of water, or watch that new Gordon Ramsey YouTube video floating around Tumblr, both of which Blaine does before he closes his laptop and pads into the bathroom to begin his nighttime routine. The water is near-scalding when Blaine steps into the shower, but he doesn’t notice as he begins working his fingers through his crunchy hair. Maybe Kurt even fell asleep at the computer desk and would wake up with keyboard indents in his forehead. Blaine had only done that once, and while the image was cute and made for a likeable text post, it had been a painful experience he wouldn’t like to repeat any time soon. He wonders if Kurt will keep writing while Blaine’s asleep, or if he’s embarking on his own nighttime ritual as Blaine applies an astringent to his t-zone and spits out the toothpaste in his mouth--though if Kurt is as busy as Blaine with show choir, he’d be hard-pressed to stay awake any longer. It’s definitely past Blaine’s self-imposed bedtime when he finally finishes pulling on his blue silk pajama set.  
  
Out of habit, Blaine opens the Tumblr app on his phone after popping out his contacts and sliding into bed, but nothing important was posted to his dash in the thirty minutes he was offline. Blaine does smile, though, as he catches a new notification on his blog screen. He responds accordingly, places his phone into sleep mode, and turns off his lamp.  
  
 _sparklingtheaterofexcess started following you_


	3. Chapter 2

partfalseparttrue

** Fic Rec! **

The birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and this boy was wide awake on a Sunday morning because his neighbor decided to mow the lawn at eight o'clock. Sleep deprived and cranky, I decided to finally read "On the Other End" (I know, I know-- I'm late to the party) to put me in a better mood.

While this fic started off as a Sing Kink Meme prompt, it is not just a mindless sex romp fulfilling all the bullet points and bonus ideas on the list (though there is nothing wrong with those, either!). The author obviously put a lot of thought and care into crafting the journey of Chase and Devon into a more intimate relationship, creating a slow burn that brings the reader right along with the copious, delicious, squirm-inducing sexual tension.

If you don't already know the gist of "On the Other End" (and have you been living under a rock?), Chase and Devon navigate taking the next step in their relationship by eliminating physical contact to overcome their fears of intimacy. In short: our favorite boys fumble and sext and stutter their way through doing the dirty. But like I said, it's not just an excuse for a porn spree that happens to press all my buttons. Chase and Devon really feel like the characters we see on _Sing_ , though we won't get scenes like the ones in this fic unless the show moves to HBO. The dialogue is great, the sex is equal parts hot and adorably embarrassing, and the ending is so sweet you'll want to kick your feet in joy.

If you have the time (and no one reading over your shoulder), you should definitely check out "On the Other End," as well as the other works in the author's masterlist. If the lawn mower doesn't quit soon, I know how I'm spending my Sunday.

[#fic](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23fic) rec [#chevon](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23chevon) for your bls

2 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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sparklingtheaterofexcess

I try my damnedest to keep my fandom and real lives separate, but that iPhone case patterned like Chase's plaid blazer from season three is _giving me life_ right now.

[#someday](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23someday) I will be able to afford Chase's clothes [#someday](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23someday) [#sing](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23sing) for your bls

1 Note Reblog [Heart]  
partfalseparttrue said: I just bought the one with Devon's DarkBird costume. Resistance is futile.

-

partfalseparttrue

>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Anonymous asked:_
> 
> _how can you keep shipping chevon? i can't stand devon now that he's a cheater._  
> 

 

 

 

I think it's important to remember, Anon, that Devon is a complex, multifaceted character who endures regular human struggles and has human emotions...who also cheated on his boyfriend. He is more than just a cheater. Does that mean I "forgive" the character for cheating? No. It's not my place to make excuses for his actions, even if I try to explain around them in my own fanworks. The cheating may be out of character, in my biased Devon-stan opinion, but it happened and now I want to figure out why it happened. Am I sad this storyline has been picked up when all I wanted this season were the trials and tribulations of Chase and Devon sharing a fifth floor walk-up in Chelsea with a pet cat? Yes. But I'm still behind the two boys who fell in love on a staircase, who messed up, who messed up again, and who now need to find their way back to each other.

I hope that answered your question, Anon.

[#chevon](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23chevon) feels [#thinking](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23thinking) about a season two re-watch during the hiatus [#who](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23who)'s with me?

15 notes   Reblog   [Heart]

-

Satisfied with his answer, Blaine closes the Tumblr tab on his browser, resists the knee-jerk reaction to immediately open another one, and focuses again on the second chapter Kurt had finished last night. He wants to keep reading along as Kurt types, which has swiftly become a bad habit over the last two days, but Kurt had said _brb, my step-brother is complaining about lunch, or the lack thereof_ in the chat twenty minutes ago and then disappeared.

Blaine scrolls up to where he'd left off earlier and takes a moment to crack his knuckles before beginning. He reads a few paragraphs at a time before going back to leave a comment, now that he sees the direction Kurt is trying to go. This is the part of editing he enjoys. Sure, he likes picking apart grammatical errors and looking for their/they're/there mistakes, but Blaine loves shaping the author's vision, pulling the inspiration and ideas out where they might be hiding behind clunky construction and unnecessary details. It's like the scene in _Ghost_ with the potter's wheel, where Blaine is Patrick Swayze, guiding Kurt-as-Demi-Moore through the process of creating art-- though without the shirtlessness and weird sexual overtones.

Although Kurt could be shirtless, for all Blaine knows. Blaine could be shirtless, too, except that it's past noon and he still hasn't changed out of his pajamas or applied a second coat of hair gel.

>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Chase slams his fists down on the desk, causing his stress ball to bounce and roll sadly to the floor next to his feet._ ( **Blaine 12:27 PM** : Slamming one’s fists is a pretty cliche description. Maybe think of something else to show Chase’s anger, something unique to his character?) _He whirls in his spinny chair, pressing two fingers into the earpiece of his headset, as if that will make the customer service representative understand him more clearly._
> 
> _“This is an emergency,” he says, enunciating his consonants. “I know I’m scheduled to leave in three days, but I need on the next flight to Columbus, which, according to your website, leaves at eight o’clock tonight.”_
> 
> _“Sir,” the lady begins,_ ( **Blaine 12:29 PM** : Don’t use a said bookism here. If she’s not getting cut off by Chase, you can just use ‘says’. Really, 95% of the time you can just use ‘says’. It doesn’t get boring for the reader, I promise.) _“while your father’s appointment with his oncologist is an important and scary time for you, if he is not actually dying, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to reschedule your flight.”_
> 
> _But he_ is _dying, Chase thinks. His father is slipping through his fingertips, and one day Chase is going to reach for his hand and grasp at empty air._ ( **Blaine 12:29 PM** : I like this concept, but elaborate a bit more. You have room and pacing here for some really lovely closeness into Chase’s state of mind and how he views this event. Explore it.)
> 
> _He sighs, running a hand through his hair and messing up the perfect coif he’d styled that morning. “Fine,” he says. “When’s your next open flight?”_
> 
> _There’s tapping on the other end for a moment. “Nine-thirty tomorrow morning, sir,” she says. “It’s a middle seat, row three. Would you like me to book it for you?”_
> 
> _He won’t make it to Columbus until after his father’s appointment, and Chase hates being squashed on an airplane between two unfamiliar people without any room to stretch his legs, but Chase supposes that’s the best he’s going to get. “Let me get my credit card,” he says, reaching into his wallet with one hand while typing a hasty email to his boss with the other._ ( **Blaine 12:33 PM** : That is a lot of action happening at once. Can a person really type an email with one hand and effectively get out his wallet with the other? I just tried and had to re-type this message a couple times because of typos.) ( **Kurt 12:33 PM** : Maybe you’re just bad at it.) ( **Kurt 12:34 PM** : Sorry, that was rude. I’ll fix it.) ( **Blaine 12:34 PM** : Just because I suggest an edit doesn’t mean you have to stick to it, Kurt, if you really don’t want to.)( **Kurt 12:34 PM** : I know.)

 

 

 

Blaine waits for another response, but it never comes. And Kurt doesn’t seem to be typing any more into the document, nor using the chat function. Kurt’s cursor hovers at the end of that paragraph without change. Blaine gives it ten minutes, popping over to another tab to check Facebook and leave a comment on one of Thad’s pictures from the pool party at his house last weekend, before he opens Tumblr to see if Kurt got distracted looking up scarves for _Fashion of Sing_ again.

-

sparklingtheaterofexcess

Ah yes, how could I be so blind? Chase scratching his nose lightly at the end of Devon’s emotional acoustic solo definitely means that his master plan of making Devon cheat was successful and now he can continue twirling his moustache and cackling into the sunset as the Worst Boyfriend Ever.

[#this](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23this) fandom I s2g

2 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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sparklingtheaterofexcess  


>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Anonymous asked: Wow, must be hard to read the Tumblr dashboard from way up there on your high horse._  
> 

 

 

If this fandom continues to clog my dash with meta and analyses with absolutely no basis in logic that only perpetuate wars between those who “stan” Chase and those who “stan” Devon because they’re destined to simultaneously prove which one is at fault in the break-up and woobify the other party, then I will gladly take my absurdly tall horse and ride the fuck out of here.

Hope it’s not too hard to read my response with your head lodged up your ass.

[#chevon](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23chevon) wank for your bls

32 Notes Reblog [Heart]

-

Blaine frowns. While Kurt’s tone online is usually a bit more _abrasive_ and straightforward than Blaine’s, he’s never seen Kurt be this downright mean to someone. It unsettles Blaine, makes him feel something heavy clench in the pit of his stomach. Kurt seemed perfectly fine when they’d been chatting earlier, interspersing questions about characterization with commentary on the latest episode of _Chopped_ and how to properly make a soufflé without burning it, so this latest post seemed wildly out of thin air.

He composes a new message in Gchat, hoping Kurt will notice.

**Blaine** : _Is everything okay?_

**Kurt** : _Not really._

**Blaine** : _…Kurt._

**Kurt** : _My step-brother’s car wouldn’t start so I had to drive him to football practice, and this jock who makes my life a living hell was in the parking lot and said some things that I could hear even without my window rolled down. And my brother didn’t do anything to stop it, which isn’t unusual. On a normal day I can deal with it just fine, water off my back, you know? I get slushies thrown in my face, and tossed into dumpsters like garbage, and my shoulder jammed into the edge of lockers, so slurs should be the least of my complaints. But today it just...hit hard. Sorry._

Blaine grimaces, flashing back to memories of his own bullying experiences, tripping face first over someone’s extended foot in the cafeteria, old fruit thrown at him while he ran laps in P.E., swirlied then locked in the girls’ bathroom for half a day until the janitor came to let him out. Thankfully he’s past those now at Dalton, where even the gossip mill is mundane and mainly focused on whose family has the most money, but the way he’d felt his wrist snap when someone stomped on it is something he can’t forget with time or distance.

**Blaine** : _I do know. They put me in the hospital._

**Kurt** : _Who?_

**Blaine** : _The...bullies. At my old school._  
I asked one of my guy friends from the drama club to go with me to the Sadie Hawkins dance freshman year, and some of the jocks took offense to that, to put it politely, and beat the living crap out of us. And the school just kind of...accepted it.  
The guys got suspended because one of them recorded it on his cell phone, like it was a funny clip for youtube to "beat the fags," but the school made it very clear that they weren't going to prevent anything else like this from happening to me and the other two gay students because they "disapproved of our lifestyle choice."  
So once my ribs healed I transferred to a private school with a zero tolerance bullying policy.

**Kurt** : _Oh my god._

**Blaine** : _It’s fine, I mean, I’m fine now and everything._  
I don't talk about it a lot on my blog, because what kind of message does that send, you know? I want to offer advice to LGBTQ+ people like me, and I tell them to be strong and that everything gets better, but I *ran*, Kurt.  
And I think, maybe if I had confronted them earlier with the locker checks and slurs spray painted on my locker, maybe it wouldn't have reached that point.

Tucked away in a drawer in the bottom of Blaine’s desk, hidden between pages of an old spiral notebook, is the photograph of Blaine and his friend from the Sadie Hawkins dance. It’d been taken when they first arrived, not knowing what would happen later, and the photographer shot them a dirty look before he snapped the picture, but to Blaine it had been perfect. Frankly, Blaine was surprised when his homeroom teacher mailed it to him after Blaine transferred schools, since he’d forgotten about it entirely in the wake of the whole ordeal. They look awkward like every teenager does in professional photos, Blaine’s hand hovering slightly above the other boy’s shoulder like he’s afraid to touch, but they’re both smiling and _happy_ despite the braces and chin acne and frizzy hair. _I could fall in love with this boy,_ Blaine had thought--twice, in fact. That night, when they were just two friends dancing in the corner of the gymnasium, grinning even as they listened to the cold whispers and taunts thrown at their backs when they decided to stay on the floor during a slow dance.And again, months later on his way home from a physical therapy appointment, when Blaine ripped open the manila envelope and their picture fell into his lap. Fate had other plans, however, and Blaine is unable to change them, though every once in a while he pulls out the photograph, smooths his fingers over their faces.

**Kurt** : _You don't know that..._

**Blaine** : _I think a lot of prejudice stems from ignorance, and since our health classes and churches and community centers aren't doing enough to curb homophobic bullying, I think it's important to call out hate both online and in the real world and show people what they're doing is wrong._

**Kurt** : _Your one-man education quest. I like it._

**Blaine** : _First, the Midwest. Next, the world. :)_

**Kurt** : _Thanks for the advice, though. I think I'm going to reblog a gifset of Devon's butt in yoga pants as an apology to my dash, and go do something else for a little bit to distract me.  
I’m trying to teach my dad how to make a proper crepe without burning it, anyway, which I’m sure will take all of my patience, most of my afternoon, and probably some of my eyebrows._

**Blaine** : _Haha, pics or it didn’t happen._  
See you later, Kurt.  
Courage.

\---

Blaine doesn’t hear from Kurt for the rest of the night or the next morning, even though he refreshes his dashboard every five minutes while getting ready for school--though all that does is nearly make him late to first period when he gets sidetracked by a tumblr dedicated to making graphics of Chase and Devon with horse_ebooks quotes. It’s not until a break in Warblers rehearsal where Blaine tries to finish his chemistry homework so he doesn’t have any once he gets home that he gets a push notification on his phone from gmail that shows Kurt is making changes to the doc and replying to comments. Satisfied, Blaine tucks his phone back in his pocket and continues converting grams to moles and moles to grams with varying levels of success until Wes calls rehearsal back to order.

Bypassing his mother starting dinner in the kitchen, Blaine heads straight to his bedroom and wiggles the mouse on his laptop to wake it from sleep mode, removing his jacket and loosening his tie in the process. He puts a B-52s album on shuffle on iTunes and dances his way around the room while changing into a pair of sweatpants and a comfortable cotton shirt. The song switches to “Mesopotamia” and Blaine dips into a groove, sliding and snapping his way back to the computer from the clothes hamper in his bathroom. His mother complains passive aggressively when he sings too loud in the house, so Blaine hums and mouths along to the lyrics while drumming with his fingers on the desk. Once Tumblr loads, he types out a text post that just says, “I’ll meet you by the third pyramid,” with a gif of Matt Smith dancing in a tuxedo and posts it without any explanation, knowing that maybe one percent of his followers will get it.

He plops into the office chair chair, letting it roll a little away before grabbing the desk and pulling himself back in. Blaine opens his Google Drive and takes a moment of silence for the ten fic ideas he hasn’t worked on in months before he clicks on Kurt’s Big Bang and scrolls down to where he’d left off before.

What Blaine sees is certainly out of the ordinary, even though he’s only known Kurt for a few days.

>  
> 
>  
> 
> _”You don’t get it, Devon,” Chase shouts eyes burning. “I can’t be with you any more I’ve said it a hundred times and you never.”_
> 
> _“I thought were were getting better,” Devon says, pleaded with Chase like his life depended on it, “I thought you coming back meant that we would try to work on us as a couple and that we would--”_
> 
> _“There’s nothing to work on,” Chase says. His hands shake as he gripes the paper coffee cup in his hand, now glad he’d picked the coffee shop to discuss this because he’s sure he woudl be crying if they weren’t in public, He hates Devon in that moment, hates him_ so much _because he just doesn’t understand, nobody understands or cares or does anything about it and he’s all alone why can’t anyone just see how badly he’s hurting_  
> 

 

 

It’s--well, it’s a lot of things Blaine hadn’t come to associate with Kurt and his writing in the short time they’ve known each other. There are at least a thousand new words of rambling, grammatically incorrect, out of control sentences that don’t sound like Chase and Devon in their situation at all, and it’s more than a bit unnerving. Blaine watches as Kurt’s sentences continue to devolve for another paragraph before he snaps himself out of his stupor and opens the chat function on the side of the screen.

**Blaine** : _Um. Kurt?  
Is everything okay?_

**Kurt** : _...I’m not sure anything will be okay ever again._

**Blaine** : _Do you want to talk? I know we don’t know each other that well yet, but I’m a good listener if you want...that._

Something nasty twists in the bottom of Blaine’s stomach. He’s not sure he’s prepared to deal with whatever Kurt is going through that could possibly be worse than the high school bullying he’d discussed yesterday. His shoulderblades press hard into the computer chair as he leans back and adjusts his posture from slumping lazily over the keyboard. This is important, and even if Kurt can’t see him, Blaine needs to look the part.

There’s silence for a full five minutes where Blaine just stares at his computer screen, hardly blinking, before Kurt replies.

**Kurt** : _He kissed me._

**Blaine** : _Who?_

**Kurt** : _Karofsky._  
The bully who’s had a vendetta against me all year.  
He kissed me.

Blaine’s heart drops into his stomach and he clutches the edge of his keyboard as a wave of nausea passes through him, reeling a full-body shiver all the way to his toes. Oh, _god_. He’s going to be sick. The room goes a little white at the edges, and Blaine can feel large, phantom hands grabbing him, holding him still while heavy steel-toed boots connect again and again with his ribs. He wants to slam his eyes shut to stop the panic he can feel bubbling up in his throat, but Kurt keeps typing and Blaine can’t look away.

**Kurt** : _He shoved me to the ground yesterday and I landed hard on my tailbone in the hallway and everyone else just stared at me like I’d done something wrong by falling, and I snapped._  
So I yelled at him and followed him into the locker room and honestly I don’t remember what I said to him because I was so angry.  
But he grabbed my face and kissed me and I froze.  
And I thought he was going to do it again so I shoved him and he punched the locker behind me head and I thought he was going to kill me but he just ran.  
I just left school and came home and took three showers but I still feel like my skin is covered in spiders, so I started writing instead to distract me.  
And look how that turned out.  
I can’t do anything right.

**Blaine** : _Kurt...I am so, so sorry. Oh my god, I am so sorry.  
Did you tell somebody what happened???_

**Kurt** : _Just you, just now._  
I can’t.  
I can’t out him like that, and my dad worries enough about my school bullies enough as it is. This is something I just need to deal with.  
Not sure why I even told you, to be honest. We haven’t even known each other a week.  
For some reason, I trust you.  
That’s silly.

**Blaine** : _It’s not silly. I trust you, too._  
Which is why I think you should really consider telling someone what happened.  
Refuse to be the victim, remember?

**Kurt** : _Yeah, look how great that turned out._

Blaine feels like he’s been punched in the stomach as all the blood drains from his face. Kurt was assaulted because of _him_ and his terrible advice. What does he know about bullies, just because he experienced it and then _ran_ from his own? How could he even think to put Kurt in danger like that? He feels the hard concrete beneath his back, a heavy presence on top of him trying its hardest to break his nose, and has to take a series of deep breaths to steady himself.

He’s forgotten what public school is like, how bullies don’t always listen to reason because life isn’t a television show and PSAs don’t always reach the target demographic.

**Kurt** : _Sorry, that wasn’t...sorry.  
This wasn’t your fault._

**Blaine** : _It wasn’t yours, either._

**Kurt** : _I know that._

**Blaine** : _Do you?_  
Kurt, just because this guy is confused about his sexuality, that doesn’t give him the right to sexually assault you!  
You don’t need to protect him when that puts yourself in more danger.  
I hate to say it, but I don’t know what this guy is capable of, and I don’t think you should wait to find out. 

Tumblr is full of happy things like kittens and stories about awesome people going about their day in New York City, but it’s also full of cruelty and oppression. Stories of assault and violence and other things which Blaine blacklists simply because he can’t bear to be constantly reminded of how awful people can be. Maybe it’s made him sheltered, but Kurt’s story is waving a giant red flag that Blaine can’t ignore or block from his life.

**Kurt** : _I think he’s just scared. I don’t think he would._  
You know.  
Something more serious.

**Blaine** : _A week ago, did you think he would kiss you without your consent?_

**Kurt** : _...No.  
I just heard my dad walk in the front door. I need to go._

**Blaine** : _Kurt, I really care about your safety and well being._  
Please consider telling your father. I know you’re worried for him, but I feel like he would be even more worried if he knew you were hiding this from him.  
You’re lucky you have a father who cares for you so much.

**Kurt** : _I will consider it._  
I just...  
Later.

_Kurt has left the document._

Blaine lets out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes to stop the migraine prickling at the edges of his temples. His heart skitters in his chest like a bird trying to escape from its cage, wings beating furiously against the bars of his ribs. He longs to comfort Kurt--hug him, tell him everything will be okay even though he can't be sure of that, why had he been so sure of everything before?--but there's only so much a person can do when a connection exists solely through a computer screen. If it were Nick, or Thad, or any of the Warblers he could offer condolences and pour sincerity into his voice, but touch and tone don’t resonate across the internet, and now that Kurt is gone there’s nothing Blaine can do. It leaves him empty, yet rooted to the chair with an impossible weight in his gut.

Blaine closes all of his tabs and stares unfocused at his desktop, watching the rotation of _Sing_ images he has as a background, losing count of how many times times it loops before the guilt gnawing and gnawing away at his stomach becomes too much and he rushes to the bathroom, hand over his mouth. His knees thunk hard onto the cold tile, radiating pain through his legs he ignores with each dry heave over the toilet bowl, fingers clutching the tank to steady his body. Anxiety attacks aren't an uncommon occurrence after the attack, and Blaine knows how to handle them without alerting his parents to their presence since they'd looked disappointed the last time he expressed concern in front of them, but they had become almost non-existent since starting Dalton. _Ruined everything again_ , Blaine thinks, as his stomach rolls towards his throat and he grips harder at the porcelain lid.

It takes several minutes of carefully regulated breathing and slow counting before his heart starts beating at a steady tempo again and Blaine feels comfortable moving away from the bathroom. His legs are as unsteady as a napkin floating in the breeze that Blaine can't seem to grab, so when he makes it to the bed, he faceplants onto the comforter and crawls towards his pillows.

When his mother comes in an hour later to tell him dinner is ready, he says he's coming down with the flu, and she leaves him alone for the rest of the night to sleep fitfully in bursts of twenty to thirty minutes before waking up again. At one point he turns off the light and crawls under the covers, and at another he rinses his mouth with Listerine since there's a pound of cotton gluing his tongue to his soft palate, but Blaine can't seem to shut off his brain long enough to get any restful, purposeful sleep. He looks awful enough the next morning, eyes bloodshot and mouth dry and forehead clammy when his mother puts the back of her hand against his skin, that she doesn't say anything when he's still in bed by the time she leaves for work other than telling him the Tylenol is in the medicine cabinet.

At noon, he finally decides it’s time to get up and face the day. His stomach clenches painfully after not eating in nearly twenty-four hours, his back aches from lying down for so long, and he desperately needs to take a shower that will make him feel like a person again. If he could, he'd wallow in his misery all day, convinced somehow that it would absolve him of guilt since he hasn't been to Confession past age twelve, when he was grappling with his sexuality and the priest gave him answers he didn't want to hear. But as the show must go on, so must Blaine piece himself together and make everything all right again, as best he can.

He grabs a granola bar from the kitchen cupboard, makes his bed and fluffs his pillows, and tidies the toy robots on his dresser until there aren’t any distractions left. Once Blaine resigns himself to checking Tumblr for an update from Kurt (something he never thought would _ever_ happen), he drums his nails on the desk and busies himself stacking papers while his newly-restarted computer takes a while to boot up Google Chrome. The anticipation while his dashboard loads is even worse than when Blaine has several new messages and avoids his inbox for a few minutes, wondering what offensive thing he said or did completely by accident.

There aren't any new messages, though, and since Blaine's queue was running, his followers probably didn't even know he was gone. And that's a scary thought--how long could he be missing before anyone online would even notice a difference? The cast and crew haven't tweeted anything worthwhile, there aren't any new spoilers, and the only fic update Blaine sees is to a longfic he stopped reading after the third paragraph; there's nothing important on his dash, until:

-

sparklingtheaterofexcess

What the hell is a Backyardigan, and why is it all that's on tv right now?

0 Notes Reblog [Heart]

-

Which, arguably, isn't that important in the grand scheme of things, but Blaine's heart jumps into his throat and he startles out a laugh that's more breathy squeak than not. He opens a new tab and his fingers fumble typing the web address for Google Docs three times before he forces himself to slow down. Kurt is still in the document, and Blaine starts typing a message to him in the chat when one from Kurt appears first.

**Kurt** : _I told my dad._

**Blaine** : _And?_

**Kurt** : _He freaked out, like I knew he would._  
Not at me, of course.  
We hugged and cried a lot last night and I slept in his bed like I was eight years old again after my mother died, but I think it helped because I hadn’t told him how serious the bullying had become and it all just kind of...spilled out.

**Blaine** : _I’m glad you felt comfortable telling him, Kurt. It sounds like you and your dad have an awesome relationship.  
What are you going to do about the whole...situation?_

**Kurt** : _It’s already been done._  
My dad stormed in the principal’s office this morning like an angry bear defending its cub from wolves and demanded that he do something about what happened or face a serious sexual assault lawsuit.  
We were arguing for expulsion but the principal said there wasn’t enough evidence since after a problem with the former glee club teacher there are no longer security cameras in the boys’ locker room. But he did get suspended for three days.  
And we now have a no-contact contract, so if he DOES violate it, he can then be expelled.

It’s a start, certainly more than Blaine’s school was willing to do, but that isn’t saying much. A piece of paper isn’t going to stop a homophobic bully, no matter how strongly worded and legally binding it may be. Blaine’s mind flashes to the community theater production he’d seen of _The Laramie Project_ , the video he’d watched on YouTube of “8”, all the countless horror stories he’d read on forums and blogs when he’d first realized what being gay actually _meant_ in the Midwest.

**Blaine** : _That doesn’t seem like enough to me. >:|_

**Kurt** : _It’s not, but tbh it’s more than I expected from the school.  
I’m considering it a win._

**Blaine** : _Well then, I’m very happy for you, Kurt.  
I’m still sorry that all happened, though._

**Kurt** : _It’s still not your fault, Blaine. And I’m feeling a lot better today._  
My dad let me stay home from school and drove thirty minutes away just so we could get Culver’s before he went back to work.  
Wait, what are you doing home from school? I usually don’t see you online until well after I get out of glee rehearsal.

**Blaine** : _The official diagnosis is “coming down with something,” but to tell you the truth, I didn’t sleep at all last night.  
And I felt miserable this morning knowing my friend was distressed and I couldn’t do anything about it._

**Kurt** : _Good, I’m glad._  
Not that you didn’t feel well!  
But that you called me your friend.

Blaine smiles wide, one of the full-teeth ones that he consciously avoids in pictures because it scrunches his face and makes his eyes all squinty. Friends. He likes that.

**Blaine** : _We are friends, right?_

**Kurt** : _Blaine, I think you may be one of my best friends.  
Which is a high honor that before only two fierce divas in my glee club shared._

**Blaine** : _Now three. :D_

**Kurt** : _:D :D_

Blaine makes a happy humming noise and is about to flip back to Tumblr to catch the updates he missed, now that he feels better, but his breath catches in his throat when all of the new text on the screen highlights. Though he has no idea what Kurt’s actually doing, he imagines a hand slowly and dramatically lowering towards the backspace key on the keyboard. Blaine panics, types frantically into the chat.

**Blaine** : _WAIT.  
DON’T ERASE ANYTHING._

**Kurt** : _What, why?_  
Blaine, it’s all garbage.  
I used three adverbs in one sentence. One sentence!

**Blaine** : _Oh, it definitely needs a *lot* of work._  
You committed comma atrocities I’ve never seen before.  
But I think that some of the raw emotion is salvageable, especially since Chase is going through such a difficult time in the break-up. The emotion is good.  
The execution? Not so much.  
Think of it like a super rough draft.

**Kurt** : _Fine, oh wise and wonderful beta. :)  
But you’re helping me pick through everything!_

The highlight disappears, and Blaine lets out a sigh of relief that turns into a breathy chuckle when he reads Kurt’s reply. As the new section moves down a few large spaces and Kurt begins re-typing the first couple sentences, embellished and with proper grammar that warms Blaine’s heart, Blaine types a reply in the chat and begins working at the end of the last paragraph so he and Kurt will meet in the middle.

**Blaine** : _It’s a date. :)_


	4. Chapter 3

sparklingtheatereofexcess

I swear, you don’t realize how many words twenty-five thousand is until you sit down and do a word count and cry over the fact that you’ve been giving yourself carpal tunnel over two stupid idiot boys in love, and you’re only at fourteen thousand words with two months to go and an entire B plot to wrap up in a way you haven’t quite thought of yet. I was hoping to get more done over winter break, but I’ve been lucky to put my metaphorical pen to the metaphorical paper for more than two or three hundred words a day.

Sigh.

[#i](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23i) need a manicure. stat.

1 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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sparklingtheaterofexcess

> _partfalseparttrue said: I believe in you. Need me to prod you later? Or will you be busy with pre-Christmas festivities?_  
> 

I’m not going to be in the Nativity scene at Grace Community Church, if that’s what you’re asking. I told my dad never again after I was eight and Gabriel and one of the cows made fun of my sheep outfit. They just didn’t understand the subtle art of bedazzled hoof mittens and cotton balls hot-glued to the back of a white suit. Amateurs.

[#partfalseparttrue](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23partfalseparttrue) [#i](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23i) was a pretty cute sheep [#you](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23you)’re not getting pictures

3 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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partfalseparttrue

**Fic Rec**

I’ve never worked on a project as long as sparklingtheaterofexcess’s Chevon Big Bang before, and I must say, I have a newfound respect for anyone who has written or beta’ed something this long. I knew it would be difficult since I myself have never been able to manage something longer than a couple thousand words, but wow.

I’ve been rereading a lot of “the classics” over the hiatus because there isn’t a lot of new fic popping up (and this is my subtle hint that people should be writing more fic!) and I want to remember how much joy they brought me a couple years ago. But I’m looking at the word counts, and it’s like, my goodness! Thirty thousand, forty thousand-- you all are machines!

Anyway, today’s fic rec is one of my favorites, with a whopping 50k+ of beautiful words and emotions and feelings. Lay It All Down was written almost exactly two years ago, and it still brings a single tear to my eye (okay, and then quite a few more tears...) by the heartfelt ending. If you haven’t read this story yet, if you came to the fandom late, it is quite a treat. Devon and Chase break up, but before you say “too soon!”, the story is really about them finding love again and discovering each other when they’re forced to interact at the wedding of their two close friends. Even though we have learned a lot more about who Devon and Chase are as people since this fic was written, the characterization is still brilliant and spot-on, so you _know_ the author has a wonderful handle on our two boys.

Everything is quiet and understated, yet beautiful, like fireflies swaying in time with breeze-rustled grass. There’s a wonderful scene in the middle where Devon opens his heart to Chase and explains the reasons for his side of the break up, and you just _feel_ so many things for two soulmates who were a little dense and drifted apart. ~~If~~ When Chase and Devon get back together, I can only hope we get a reunion as sweet and tender ~~and full of scorching hot sex~~ as the one in _Lay It All Down_.

[#fic](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23fic) rec [#chevon](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23chevon) for your bls

32 Notes Reblog [Heart]  
sparklingtheaterofexcess: Ugh, the scene on the dock? Cracks my brittle heart every time.

-

Blaine pulls at his tie, loosening it so it slips down his neck and brushes against his skin where he’s undone the top two buttons of his Oxford dress shirt. The Warblers rehearsal room is stiflingly hot even with his jacket discarded over one of the leather couches, but the council seems determined to continue rehearsing even though the air conditioner is broken and they’ve been rehearsing for two hours like they have every other day this week and it’s only the first Friday back from winter break and all Blaine wants to do is eat cereal in his pajamas and watch reruns of _Law and Order: SVU_. He never thought he’d say it, but he even misses the chaotic mess of the King’s Island Christmas Spectacular--and that was three shows a day in a scratchy wool suit under hundred-degree stage lights and caked-on stage make up.

He also misses being on Tumblr during the downtime, as pathetic as that sounds, because the increased Warblers’ rehearsals are going to severely cut into the time Blaine can chat with Kurt. After nearly a month’s luxury of rolling out of bed and spending several hours on the computer before his shifts at King’s Island, Blaine’s forgotten how much real life tends to...suck...sometimes, especially when he trips over a Warbler in the second row while trying to pirouette and the Council politely berates the other boy for being in Blaine’s way.

The third time Blaine is a semi-tone sharp in the bridge of “Raise Your Glass,” Thad winces like Blaine had unleashed a banshee shriek and calls for a fifteen minute break and vocal rest to make sure the boys are in tip-top shape. As the others file out to the boys’ bathroom down the hall, Blaine hangs back to practice the step-pivot-pose he can’t quite nail in the second chorus. The harmony wraps around him as he glides across the floor, mimicking the dance with a phantom choir following his every step two feet behind. The parquet floor squeaks under his feet with each turn upstage. The choreography goes smoothly until Blaine pretends to pop into the line and then jump backwards towards center stage, at which point his feet get caught underneath his body and he rocks on his heels, nearly tumbling forward.

Blaine huffs and feels his phone vibrate in his pocket just as he’s resetting himself to practice that move again. He pulls it from his pocket and slides the lock, revealing a new push notification from his Tumblr inbox. It’s from Kurt, like so many of his messages these days, and Blaine smiles softly as he peruses the fanmail.

> _My choir is doing a mash-up of “Thriller” and “Heads Will Roll” at a football game on Saturday dressed in full zombie regalia, but I’m not allowed to go with the no-contact contract (because of course the star running back doesn’t get kicked off the team for sexual assault, of course not). Surprisingly though, I am not upset at the loss. Do you know how difficult it is to get cornstarch and red food dye out of clothing??? Probably more difficult than *actual* blood.  
>  -sparklingtheaterofexcess_  
> 

 

 

> _No werewolves? And look on the bright side? In the event of an actual zombie apocalypse you could wear clothes from your favorite designers without having to pay for them.  
>  -partfalseparttrue_  
> 

 

 

> _As long as it happens a season away, I am fine with that. If the world ends with Versace’s fall line from this year I will offer my neck up to the first zombie, werewolf, or vampire that shows casual interest.  
>  -sparklingtheaterofexcess_  
> 

 

Blaine’s laughter echoes off the panelled walls of the senior commons, loud and boisterous in the otherwise empty room. He idly turns on one foot, slow and careful, bending his knees and ignoring proper form and technique while he taps out a reply to Kurt’s message. It should come as no surprise when he feels someone clear their throat and tap on his shoulder, but Blaine nearly drops his phone as he fumbles it in the air, startled and sliding back into awareness that more exists in this room than himself and, via his phone, Kurt.

“Warbler Blaine,” says Wes, frowning with his eyebrows pinched together like slanted rows of neatly mowed grass. “Might I have a word?”

Blaine nods, dread settling in his stomach like a dead weight. As Wes leads him to one of the couches pushed against the wall to create more rehearsal space, Blaine plots a detailed list of all the things he’s done wrong in rehearsal and the ways he can fix them, starting with the _pas de chat_ he improvised poorly in the second verse.

“Is everything all right with you?” Wes asks once he’s perched primly on the edge of a chair like he’s about to take out a pad and start recording notes about Blaine’s condition. Sometimes Wes reminds Blaine more of a future psychiatrist than a future lawyer, and Blaine isn’t sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad.

Blaine sits on the couch and fiddles with the pillows for something to keep his hands busy, otherwise he’ll pull at the loose thread in his slacks that has been driving him crazy all day. “Yes, why?”

“You seem a little distracted lately,” Wes says, crossing one leg over the other at the knee. “I’ve noticed that you haven’t been giving one-hundred percent in rehearsals, and the other council members agree.”

Blaine bristles at the idea that the Warblers talk about him behind his back, especially the council who tend to hold themselves above the sort of gossip he’d been used to at his old school. It all boils down to Blaine not being good enough, whether from his sexuality or his soft shoe. For all they promote brotherhood and unity, they sure do a good job at singling out certain members of the group and giving them unfair expectations and crushing them under the weight of their own failure and burnt dreams. Or perhaps that’s just Blaine.

“Nothing’s wrong, I’ve just been texting with a friend that I spent a lot of time with over the break,” he says, which is close enough to the truth that Blaine doesn’t feel guilty lying about it.

“A fellow Dalton man should know not to text a Warbler in the middle of rehearsal,” Wes says, arching one eyebrow. “Especially so close to Regionals.”

Blaine shifts on the couch, rubbing his palms against his slacks as he resettles against the cushion. “He doesn’t go to Dalton, actually.”

“Oh?” Wes asks. “I was under the impression that you weren’t in contact with anyone from your old school. Been conversing with the enemy?”

The hairs on Blaine’s arms prickle as a wave of perturbation washes over him. He blinks at Wes for a long moment trying to gauge his body language, but Wes sits as stoic as ever, like a glass bird perched in a curio case. If this is a gentlemanly talk between friends instead of an interrogation or intervention, Blaine will eat his bowtie collection. What business is it of the Warblers whom he hangs out with? It’s not like they’re a cult of privileged, prep school boys who only hang out with each other. (He studiously ignores the voice of reason in his head he’s come to imagine as Kurt’s voice saying, “That’s exactly what they sound like, Blaine.”)

He clenches his fists into the fabric of his pants, quickly releasing it before they crinkle. “Not at all,” Blaine says, voice as even as he can make it, “though I wasn’t aware there was a strict ban on friendship outside our ranks.”

“Do you not remember the crisis of 1997,” Wes asks, “when two Warblers fell in love with a mezzo soprano rabblerouser from Crawford and it brought us to our downfall in a terrifying display of feminine wiles and intuition?”

“That’s not the same thing,” Blaine says, raising his hands a few inches from his thighs in a gesture of exasperation or silencing, he’s not sure. “Besides, I don’t even know if this guy lives in the same state. I met him online while talking about _Sing_.”

Blaine’s body freezes when he realizes what he let slip. He turns his head minutely to catch Wes’ expression of surprise before he schools his face into casual concern.

“That sounds most unsafe, Warbler Blaine,” Wes says, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his knees, chin propped on the backs of his hands. “This friend could be a forty-year-old malfeasant only masquerading as a teenager. What do you know about him, anyway?”

Blaine knows that Kurt barks out laughter that sometimes attracts his father when Blaine types something funny into the doc and waits for Kurt to find it. He knows Kurt has his mother’s eyes, and he knows Kurt only appreciates the Harry Potter allusion to a certain point. He knows Kurt’s wardrobe is organized by season then color then material, which is a similar sorting pattern Blaine has for his weekend chinos and polo shirts. He knows that Kurt is rough on the outside and vulnerable on the inside, like an orange, or perhaps a prickly pear, and he knows that Kurt doesn’t let many people see what he’s shown Blaine in only a few months. He doesn’t know Kurt’s shoe size or his address or if his eyes crinkle when he smiles, but he knows that Kurt has seen and appreciated the soft, squishy parts of Blaine, too.

“I trust him,” Blaine says. He feels his phone vibrate with another notification, but leaves it in his pocket. “An online relationship takes a lot of trust.”

Wes’ eyebrows arch even farther into his hairline. “Relationship?”

“Friendship, same thing,” Blaine says, just as the other Warblers begin filing back into the room. He stumbles over his words. “We’re barely even friends, actually. We just talk about _Sing_ , especially now that the new episodes are coming back next week.”

That lie stings from his stomach up to his chest like acid reflux, because Kurt is the very definition of the friends he always wanted at his old school and, even here, at Dalton, where his classmates seem interested only in his talents rather than his whole person. Would they have taken Blaine under their wings if he couldn’t sing?

“You are destined for great Warbler things, Blaine Anderson,” Wes says, seemingly non-sequitur as they stand and begin to rejoin the dignified horseplay happening in the entrance of the senior commons. “You could be on the council next year if you so desire, but sometimes being a leader means putting the interests of the group before the interests of the self.”

Blaine sighs inaudibly, but rolls his shoulders back and straightens the now-loosened tie around his neck. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be better from now on.”

Wes makes an expression that Blaine can’t quite decipher and squeezes his shoulders with both hands like a pre-game warm up. “I don’t want you to be better,” Wes says. “I just want you to be you.”

Blaine doesn’t mention how not-him the Dalton him really is. Instead, he launches into “Raise Your Glass” and tries to feel happy at the Warblers’ combined faces of relief when he finally nails the note in the bridge.

\---

sparklingtheaterofexcess

> _Anonymous asked: ♪ ♂_  
> 

 

♪: Song you’ll dance to at your wedding?

As someone who has been planning his own wedding since he was two years old (though fortunately, someone whose color palette has become more refined than Barney purple and mustard yellow), I have thought about this one at great length, and I’m pretty sure it would be “Come What May” from Moulin Rouge. I can picture it: matching suits, some of those paper lanterns strung artfully through the trees, my head on his chiseled yet comfortable chest as we sway ‘round and ‘round and sing the lyrics softly to each other over the accompaniment of a hired orchestra (doves optional). The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is to love and be loved in return.

♂: Hottest male celebrity?

Taylor Lautner. I can feel you judging me, Tumblr collective, but I wasn’t the only person to watch New Moon with the sound off, lbr.

[#i](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23i) watched it for the articles [#memes](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23memes)

2 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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partfalseparttrue

> _Anonymous asked: ☻♫_  
> 

 

☻- Favorite blogging position?

Reverse cowgirl. ;) (At my desk on my laptop usually. Or blogging on my phone, in which case I’m on my back with the phone over my face (and yes I have dropped it on my nose more than once)).

♪- Song you’ll dance to at your wedding?

Definitely “Come What May” from Moulin Rouge. Every time I watch that movie (about once a month, give or take how long I can go without looking at Ewan McGregor’s sculpted...face...) I think about how perfect it would be as a first dance song. It’s over the top romantic, yes, but what is more romantic than a wedding? The joining of two souls forever throughout eternity?? (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

[#and](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23and) yes i am belting it in my room now [#no](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23no) shame

6 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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partfalseparttrue

> _sparklingtheaterofexcess asked: Well this is awkward._  
> 

 

We can’t both have the same first dance at our weddings! What a faux pas.

_oneofushastochange.gif_

Unless it’s the same wedding? Are you proposing? ;)

[#staaaaars](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23staaaaars) may collide [#sparklingtheaterofexcess](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23sparklingtheaterofexcess)

17 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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partfalseparttrue

> _sparklingtheaterofexcess asked: Like I would propose via the internet, tch. It’s sky writing over Central Park or bust._  
> 

 

I won’t say yes unless there’s a  _Sing_ flash mob involved, honey, you know that.

[#sparklingtheaterofexcess](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23sparklingtheaterofexcess) [#i](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23i) just got an anon who thinks we’re dating lol

38 Notes Reblog [Heart]  
sparklingtheaterofexcess said: That’s it, I’m breaking up with you.

-

Blaine laughs, feeling as bubbly and light as the third glass of Diet Coke he’d had in the last hour. His European History textbook and notecards are spread across his desk, and the Wikipedia article on Charlemagne (opened to the references section, of course) has been tabbed for a couple hours, but Blaine only manages to click on one link or type two sentences of his essay before he’s pulled back to Tumblr, and Kurt, and the beautiful things Kurt is writing in the Google Doc.

It’s been a quick and eventful month, as January segued into February and the word count of Kurt’s Chevon Big Bang continued to increase at a rate that truly impressed Blaine, who had only managed a thousand words or two of drabbles in the same time frame. They’d chugged along and worked fairly well together, bouncing ideas from left to right, talking about everything from the fanfiction ( **Kurt** : _I still can’t think of a title!_ **Blaine** : _Just use a Shakespeare quote. Or a lyric from Mumford and Sons. That’s what I do._ ), to their shared interests. There had been a couple of snafus along the way ( **Blaine** : _Kurt, you can’t have Chase crying more than once per chapter. That’s reaching_ Sing _levels of absurdity._ ), but overall they fit together like two fandom-obsessed, teen boy peas desperate to get out of their Midwestern pod.

When _Sing_ came back from its winter hiatus, Blaine hadn’t known what to expect from the fic, but if anything Kurt began to write faster--as though the thousands of words he produced would make up for the lackluster production of new episodes. And even when good Chevon-related spoilers arose around the wedding episode, Kurt refused to buy into them. “I’m not changing for anyone,” Kurt had said in a fanmail that Blaine saved in his inbox, “especially not for TPTB that think they can lure me back in with promises of filthy gay sex in the backseat of a hybrid sedan. We’ve been down that road before with unhappy results.” (Though Blaine deleted the next message, which simply said, “I’ve now blown up that picture of Chase’s hand on Devon’s butt to 500x its size and set it as my desktop background. Did no one tell the Brazilians to invest in a better megapixel camera???”)

There’s a Gchat message waiting for Blaine once he returns to the doc after skimming a Google Scholar article about the Magna Carta.

 **Kurt** : _You’re certainly in a mood tonight.  
I like it._

 **Blaine** : _I’m happy._  
Your rough draft is turned in and the artist claiming isn’t until tomorrow.  
Realistically, you have the rest of the day off to celebrate making it this far.

 **Kurt** : _1) There’s only a month left until this is due._  
2) I am still like fifteen thousand words from the end, because apparently twenty-five thousand words was too few for my brain, of course.  
3) I’m worried that an artist won’t pick my work and I’ll be last, just like I was every year when the boys were picking teams for kickball. :(  
Also it’s two o’clock in the morning, “rest of the day” should be spent sleeping.

Blaine manages a haphazard glance at the cover of his history textbook, which has gathered a ring of condensation from the ice melting in his glass of pop. He wipes it away with his hand before it stains, frowning. That’s--well, that’s quite a lot of words. The piece is already towering at a whopping word count and Blaine knows there are still a couple chapters left, but for some reason he hadn’t quite thought about it in those terms. Still, it’s not like Kurt can just stop writing at twenty-five thousands words and call it a day, much as Blaine (and probably Kurt) would sometimes like him to. And it’s not like those fifteen thousand words are all happening tonight, anyway.

 **Blaine** : _Sleep is for the weak, and the uninvolved in fandom._  
Besides, people are going to love your fic.  
AUs are great and take a lot of skill, but what people really look to sink their teeth into is fix-it fic that ends up with their faves back together. And you’re providing that in spades.  
The line about Chase reflecting on love while he listens to Devon shower down the hall is going to be quoted all over Tumblr, I know it.

 **Kurt** : _You always know what to say. :)_

 **Blaine** : _That’s one of my jobs as beta. Grammar checker, cheerleader, and general pick-me-upper.  
Also drill sergeant, when necessary._

 **Kurt** : _I’m going to need Drill Sergeant!Blaine in a minute if you keep distracting me._

Blaine’s about to type something sarcastic in response when a fic idea pops into his head that makes him metaphorically froth at the mouth in excitement. He can’t believe nobody in fandom has done a Chevon Cadet Kelly!AU. That needs to be rectified like, yesterday, and he makes a Tumblr post saying so before he replies to Kurt.

 **Blaine** : _Ooh, can you imagine Drill Sergeant!Chase and new recruit!Devon?  
The uniform pants, the yelling, the sweaty and muddy obstacle course that makes him a man?_

 **Kurt** : _NOT HELPING.  
Don’t you have an essay to write?_

 **Blaine** : _Spoilsport._

 **Kurt** : _You love it._

 **Blaine** : _Speaking of love..._

Blaine hesitates, fingers poised over the keyboard while he waits for Kurt’s response. It seems to be taking a while, so he switches tabs to Spotify and starts putting together a romantic, mood-setting playlist that will get some action for Chase and Devon, at least. Maybe he’ll make a fanmix. He adds three Beatles songs before the notification noise from Gchat sounds in his headphones.

 **Kurt** : _...Yes?_

 **Blaine** : _Valentine’s Day is coming up, and I want to do something this year for a really special person since it’s one of my favorite, most lovely holidays._

 **Kurt** : _Do tell._

 **Blaine** : _Do you think it’s weird to write a fic for someone you barely even know?  
I mean, someone you know from online but not in real life?_

Kurt takes a long time to respond again. It’s possible that the internet connection is lagging with two people in the doc at the same time, especially since Blaine has two other docs open for school. While he waits, Blaine goes back to Tumblr and answers a few of the private messages he’d received while he’d been away, and one public one one asking Blaine’s favorite Devon outfit (he picks the seahorse cardigan from the season three finale, naturally).

When Blaine refreshes his Dashboard, he catches sight of the new, shiny, rounded number of his follower count, and while he says he doesn’t care about how many followers he has, it’s still nice to see a steadily increasing number that means someone, somewhere, thinks he’s worth hearing. He grins, rocking side to side in his chair like a happy dog wagging its tail, and flips back to the doc, more sure of his plan than ever with the latest developments.

 **Kurt** : _...Not at all. Tis the season for large, romantic gestures--especially when they’re more meaningful than cheap Hallmark cards and un-sentimental teddy bears._

 **Blaine** : _That’s what I thought! I’m really appreciative of this person and what they represent, so I thought, how better to show that than with something I’m passionate about?  
I mean, I’d like to serenade them, but I don’t want to show my face or my voice lest knowledgeable people from the show choir circuit find out who I am and harass me for Regionals information._

Blaine shudders. He can only imagine what some benevolent directors would plan if they found his Tumblr. Sheer horror, he’s sure. He’s seen some “secretly leaked” Youtube performances that were utterly terrifying, and one choir’s official Pinterest account has a board full of nothing but pictures of doe estrus.

 **Kurt** : _I’m sure they would absolutely adore a serenade. :) But if you feel so strongly about this person, and they return your affections, a fic dedicated to them will sing just as sweetly as you._

 **Blaine** : _Thank you, Kurt! I value your opinion on stuff like this._  
I’m going to let you go because this essay isn’t going to write itself, no matter how much I would like it to.  
Plus now I have this project to write, and I’d like to get it done before the weekend.  
My dad’s planned out things every day, as if keeping me busy won’t give me enough time for a candlelit dinner with my boyfriend.

It had been Blaine’s fault--in the way that it wasn’t really his fault at all--for casually answering his dad’s question about his Valentine’s Day plans at dinner with a negative, but then tacking on, after a mouthful of polenta, that “most people my age go out on the weekend, anyway, because it’s a school night.” Not two hours later his dad had come up with a day trip that Blaine would have found exciting if he thought his father actually cared.

 **Blaine** _Not that I have any boyfriend. Or candles, for that matter._

 **Kurt** : _Or cooking ability. I remember the Great Mascarpone Debacle you posted about in December.  
Good night, Blaine. Pleasant dreams. :)_

 **Blaine** : _I thought we agreed never to speak of that again! It was a fluke, Mr. I-Perfected-Tiramisu-At-Ten!  
Good night! Don’t let the fic bugs bite! :D_

Once Kurt signs off the chat, Blaine closes the doc as well and stares at the nearly-empty one for his essay. He rolls his neck left, right, then cracks his shoulders and scoots back in his chair, ready to start his exceedingly brilliant paper on how Charlemagne’s crusade destroyed the might and majesty of ancient Rome.

...Well, after he disables StayFocused so he can watch a video of the Chase and Devon’s first kiss slowed down to half speed and magnified ten times its size.

\---

The ninety minute drive to Hocking Hills State Park passes with Blaine mostly in silence as his father recounts his business partner’s latest debacle over the muted sounds of The Who on his Prius’ satellite radio.

In the morning, they hike Old Man’s Cave, a winding trail Blaine remembers from his childhood, one of the few family vacations he remembers from before Cooper left for Los Angeles. He’d been seven, which meant Cooper had been seventeen, about a year before he decided that fame and fortune were more important than leaving his little brother alone with their parents. They’d gone out during the summer, a hot, dry Ohio morning in which the caverns and trails were filled with tourists from all walks of life. Blaine remembers peering over the edge into Devil’s Bathtub, gazing into the endless, swirling water as Cooper held him by the back of his shirt so he could squint over the wall of rocks and down into the void. Cooper had let go of his shirt, just for a split second, and had laughed at Blaine’s blanched face and their mother’s indignant squawk and subsequent death-grasp on Blaine’s hand for the rest of the walk.

There’s none of that this time, though when Blaine and his father reach Devil’s Bathtub, he looks over the edge and takes a moment to remember the sensation of falling.

The trail is thick with tourists, though it is cold. Blaine’s jacket swishes back and forth with each step through permafrost on the ground. It’s not snowing, but the dirty cotton ball clouds in the air hang heavy with potential, ready to dump freezing rain on careless hikers without parkas. Blaine clutches his brown angora scarf tighter around his neck and burrows his nose into the warm, soft-smelling fabric. He walks a foot behind his father, the two of them slowly meandering through the caverns, squeezing between tight rocks that make Blaine glad he hadn’t opted for a larger jacket, and following the crowd up steps made of rock etched into the surface of the earth.

They pause for a moment in the gift shop, Blaine’s father taking a work phone call while Blaine peruses the tacky souvenirs and t-shirts and keychains like “Tight Squeeze At Old Man’s Cave.” He purchases a postcard with a picture of Devil’s Bathtub and stuffs it in the inside pocket of his jacket along with a stick of rock candy--blue, the same he remembers licking sticky-sweet the last time he was here.

“There’s still plenty of daylight left,” his father says upon reentering the gift shop, his phone stuffed haphazardly in his jacket. “Want to get in Cantwell Cliffs as well? I’ve heard it’s supposed to be nice this time of year.”

Blaine’s never been there, only the tourist location of Old Man’s Cave, but the pictures in the gift shop make it seem picturesque yet challenging. While part of him wants to get back to his computer and check Tumblr, he does admit that this day with his father has been fun, with only minimal veiled comments about father-son bonding experiences and relearning one another. With the sun high in the sky and the weather warm for February yet still not what Blaine would consider _warm_ , Blaine doesn’t see a reason _not_ to continue the excursion. Maybe, he hopes, his father will cut him some slack for a few weeks.

They stop at a gas station along the way to pick up chicken salad sandwiches for lunch, and Blaine munches happily on his while he checks Tumblr for updates during the seventeen-mile drive to the other side of the state park. There are spoilers for a prom episode that make Blaine roll his eyes over a song choice that will no doubt have absolutely no connection to his OTP, but he reblogs them anyway because at least it is some sort of news relating to Chase and Devon, albeit separately. Since the show had come back in January, there’d been a distinct lack of Chevon as a couple, only weird moments by the actors that could be interpreted as break-up sadness or indigestion or just about any other type of emotion because that storyline seems to have been dropped after the hiatus. Blaine is happy about Devon’s increased screen time, but he can’t help thinking it’s partially at Chase’s expense--even if he doesn’t like thinking in those terms and would certainly never post those opinions on his blog. Kurt would understand, but the rest of Tumblr probably wouldn’t.

-

sparklingtheaterofexcess

Rewatching the break up scene over and over again for fic research. This is the fifth circle of hell. >:|

On the bright side, I've now been assigned an artist for the Chevon Big Bang! I'm looking forward to working with them, though this means the due date looms ever closer and I feel like I'm no closer to the end than I was when I typed the very first word (which is "The," for the curious-minded).

5 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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Blaine clicks the like button and reblogs a photoset of Chase’s yellow outfits in season two before his father pulls into the parking lot of Cantwell Cliffs. The trail is more deserted than Old Man’s Cave, lacking the appeal of family-friendliness, and with most other hikers taking part in the Couple’s Hike later that evening at Ash Cave. It’s nice though, quiet, with Blaine’s feet crunching through brittle frozen grass and dirt as they make their way along the hiking trail.

“We should do stuff like this more often,” his father says once they reach the halfway point of the trail. He pauses, turning to look at Blaine. “We used to, when you were a kid.”

“We didn’t do a lot of hiking, dad,” Blaine says, though he knows what his father meant.

“We don’t talk any more.”

There are a lot of things Blaine wants to say: about how they talk but they don’t communicate, talking past each other like two people shouting into the wind in opposite directions; about how Blaine would love to talk to his father about a whole host of things like Buckeyes games and the Rachmaninoff piece he’s struggling with on piano and the cute barista he saw last week who definitely didn’t _accidentally_ give Blaine a venti instead of a grande; about Blaine’s ambitions of performing, like his brother yet so unlike him; and about how Blaine is at his happiest when singing or writing or doing anything where his emotions aren’t bottled inside. But he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “I’m sorry,” and shoves his hands into his coat.

His father fills the silence again like in the car, talking at Blaine rather than to him or with him, while Blaine trudges down the path and continues scrolling through Tumblr for more spoilers, but mostly for messages from Kurt. They’d been talking in the morning about the direction of chapter three and how it relates to what Kurt had already written of chapter four, and Blaine is anxious for Kurt’s response to his questions. But his inbox remains empty.

Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine spots a thicket not covered by a layer of frost, with a few early wildflowers peeking through the dense brown and green. It’s quietly breathtaking in a subtle yet sophisticated way, and Blaine can’t help but think of Kurt when he steps closer to get a better look. He peeks over at his father, still slowly ambling down the path, making sure he isn’t paying attention. Even though his father would probably give him an eyeroll or at least a sad yet condescending look by being effeminate enough to appreciate the beauty of nature, Blaine takes out his phone and snaps a picture of the wildflowers against the stark background, anyway.  .

Blaine steps back into line with his father with a quick half jog, scrolling through Instagram to find the best filter that makes the flowers pop. He crossposts the photo to Tumblr and tags it with Kurt’s url, knowing he would appreciate the duality of hard and soft, winter and spring. Only after opening the Tumblr app to verify that the image posted does he notice the banner at the top of his screen warning Blaine his data has reached 50% usage for the month. He hears his father’s text notification and winces, knowing that the message on his father’s phone says the same thing.

“God, Blaine,” his father says after checking his text, shooting him a look and pausing until they walk side by side, like Blaine is heeling next to him. “It's only a week into our billing cycle. What do you even _do_ on that phone?”

 _Make myself happy_ , Blaine thinks. “Just _Sing_ stuff,” he says.

His father gives him a withering look. “I thought you stopped watching that show.”

Blaine had stopped watching it--at least, watching it in the family room, because he couldn’t stand his father’s comments about Chase and later, about Chase’s relationship with Devon. He’d taken to watching the show in his room with headphones instead, because then no one could bother him while he liveblogged and cooed over things like Devon’s Christmas present.

“No, I still do,” Blaine says. His father hums tunelessly, but Blaine hears disappointment in the melody and shrinks into his jacket.

“Well,” his father says, “I’m not paying for more data for the month, so maybe you should tone down the _Sing_ stuff and focus more on your grades instead of a silly tv show.”

Blaine sighs, not bothering to mention how he only has an A- in one class, which will no doubt be an A anyway by the end of the quarter. “Yes, sir,” he says, turning off his cellular data before stowing his phone for the rest of the father-son bonding afternoon. That doesn’t stop him from planning the entire Valentine’s Day ficlet in his head while they finish the trail, though, drowning his father out with thoughts of two people who understand what love really means.

\---

partfalseparttrue

**Title** : Truly, Madly  
**Author** : partfalseparttrue  
**Rating** : NC-17  
**Word Count** : approx. 4,230  
**Summary** : In hindsight, Devon should have expected this outcome when he'd serenaded Chase on Valentine's Day. He should have remembered knee pads.  
**Author's Note** : Set in s3. This is meant for all of you lovely people who have stuck with this blog since the beginning, but mainly for someone very special--my 1,500th follower! Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

Chase lounges on the bed, legs crossed at the ankle as he casually flicks through an InStyle he'd picked up at the grocery store when they'd bought an IcyHot patch and, embarrassingly, another box of condoms from the same clerk who'd checked them out only a week and a half prior.

"It's not funny," Devon says, reentering from the bathroom in a pair of boxers and the IcyHot over his left knee. "We're never doing that in a bathroom again.”

“I told you it would be bad for your knees,” Chase says, the picture of nonchalance as he licks his pointer finger before turning the page of the magazine, “but you insisted you had to blow me right that very _second_.”

“You looked so good in those pants,” Devon whines, sitting gingerly on the bed before swinging his legs over. He fwumps back onto the pillow, hair puffing out behind his head. “I couldn’t resist.”

Chase closes his magazine and tosses it off the side of the bed before he leans over, straddling Devon’s waist, careful not to put any weight on Devon’s knees and thighs. “Let me make it up to you, baby,” he says, voice turning into a purr as he slowly runs the pads of his fingers up Devon’s quivering stomach.

Read More

[#chevon](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23chevon) [#my](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23my) fanfiction [#guess](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23guess) who’s back...back again [#sing](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23sing) for your bls

256 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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sparklingtheaterofexcess

> Anonymous asked: are you and tumblr user partfalseparttrue dating???

 

_Obviously_ not.

1 Note Reblog [Heart]

\---

Blaine logs into Gchat later, more humiliated than he’s ever been in his _life_ \--and some of his lines in the show at King’s Island far surpassed corny and went straight into lame territory. He spent a couple hours offline earlier after he posted fic, never comfortable hanging around and watching whether or not the note count would rise, and then felt a hot sense of shame once he went to check how it was doing.

Kurt is signed in, but doesn’t seem to be writing anything new, just tweaking and re-working some edits Blaine made earlier to chapter four.

> _”Look,” Chase says, glancing at Devon next to him. His hair ruffles slightly in the cold breeze; a snowflake gets lands in one of his curls, and Chase longs to wipe it away. “I can’t forget what happened--”_
> 
> _“--I’m not asking you to forget,” Devon says. He reaches between them, wiggles one hand, fingers outstretched toward Chase’s own. “I’m going to live every day the rest of my life knowing I did that to you, and I’ll never be able to apologize enough to make that go away. I already accept that.”_
> 
> _“What do you want, then?” Chase asks, though he grabs Devon’s hand and squeezes tight, swings their arms together._
> 
> _Devon squeezes back. “To show you I never stopped loving you,” he says. “To hear you never stopped loving me.”_
> 
> _Chase’s breath catches in his throat._  
> 

 

Kurt switches back and forth between ‘catches’ and ‘sticks’ in the last sentence before he backspaces the entire thing and rewrites the it entirely. So obviously, if he’s being that pedantic, he’s not in the writing zone.

**Blaine** : _omg, you know that fic I posted earlier?_

 **Kurt** : _Oh, I am aware._

Blaine frowns, double checking the notifications on the post. He doesn’t have a like _or_ reblog from Kurt, and he starts to type out “Oh, because I didn’t see you comment on it” before he backspaces, realizing how presumptuous and BNF-y that sounds. Long ago, he swore he’d never be “that guy.”

 **Blaine** : _Right, well anyway, I wrote it for my 1,500th follower, assuming they were a Chevon fan, because what else do I post besides the occasional menswear and female pop stars from the early 2000’s? And I didn’t even think to check out their blog before I dedicated it to them._  
Turns out.  
They’re a spam blog with only a fake porn video for a post. :(  
I feel so *embarrassed*!

And Blaine can’t even delete the mention in his fic header, because it’s already been reblogged by a couple hundred people. Thankfully no one else has pointed it out, but Blaine just knows there will be something in his inbox by morning. Does he make a post joking about it? Does he pretend he knew all along? He debates the merits of both while angrily deleting his Chevon Spotify playlist. There’s nothing romantic about a soul-sucking, commercial holiday like Valentine’s Day.

 **Kurt** : _Can I ask you something?_

 **Blaine** : _Of course, Kurt. You know you can talk to me about anything._

 **Kurt** : _Okay, this is exactly what I’m talking about. You and I, we’re completely honest with each other, yeah? Or at least, as honest as two faceless people can be on the internet?_  
You know my name, my story, and I know yours, which is more than any of my friends in real life can say.  
Was I not supposed to think that meant something?

 **Blaine** : _What do you mean?_

 **Kurt** : _I thought the fic you were writing for someone special...  
Was for me._

Blaine’s breath hitches. “Oh,” he says aloud, breaking the silence of his room for the first time all evening. He feels even more foolish than he had before. The normal deluge of words he feels when talking to Kurt dries into a trickle, tongue-tied from his brain to his fingers. He types several messages but they all seem inherently wrong, too full of meaning, not enough emotion.

 **Blaine** : _Oh. :(_  
Don’t ever for a second think you’re not special to me, Kurt.  
I trust you more than I trust most people in my life.

Blaine doesn’t know for certain that Kurt is who he says he is--like Wes says, Blaine doesn’t know anything about Kurt other than what Kurt has told him. They’ve never Skyped, much as Blaine has thought about it after his bi-monthly five minute chats with Cooper. He’s sure Kurt is just intriguing as his words, but Blaine has no concrete proof. He doesn’t even have a cell phone number.

Still, he lays his soul bare. Whether it was luck that Kurt stumbled across his URL on an old Livejournal post, or an algorithmic string of data that predicted their meeting as one in a series of probable events in the online universe, or both, he may never know. But while Blaine doesn’t believe in a higher power, he believes in the power of human connection, which is just as strong, just as meaningful, just as resonant and brilliant and blinding on the internet as it is anywhere else.

He doesn’t know how to fix this one.

 **Blaine** : _I’ll write you a fic, I promise._

 **Kurt** : _It’s not about the fic, but I appreciate the offer._  
I was just afraid I was reading more into this than you were.  
But you’ve made yourself clear, so now I know where we stand. :)

Blaine bites his bottom lip. That...sort of sounds like Kurt doesn’t hate him any more, but judging tone on the internet is difficult without voice inflection and facial cues. What if Kurt is only pretending to :), when really he’s :(? Blaine doesn’t want to do anything to screw this up even further.

He toys with the hem of his shirt, pulling at a loose thread. Dithering, his mother would say.

 **Blaine** : _And that’s...still friends?_

 **Kurt** : _I don’t think we could ever stop being friends, Tumblr User Blaine Partfalseparttrue._  
Plus, people seemed to love your fic.  
And at least you didn’t click on the video and get a virus. 

A fuzzy warmth spreads through Blaine’s body from his fingertips down to the ends of his toes and back to the roots of his perfectly gelled hair. In his head, a blurry Kurt sits at his computer desk, waving his hand flippantly at Blaine’s silliness. They’re fine, and Blaine takes the first deep breath his body’s allowed in a few minutes.

 **Blaine** : _It’s a little suspicious when your info section is only one sentence and it’s in the Cyrillic alphabet.  
And *you* didn’t love it, and you’re the only critic I care about._

 **Kurt** : _It was beautifully written, Blaine._

Blaine feels his face flush. It’s one thing when someone reblogs his posts with “fic rec” or “omg i can’t,” but it’s another thing to receive a direct compliment on his writing. Especially from someone like Kurt who creates beautiful prose in a seemingly effortless manner, like a butterfly that doesn’t know its wings can form hurricanes.

 **Blaine** : _Stop, you’re just saying that to make me feel better. :P_

 **Kurt** : _I’m not, and you know I’m not._  
You’re a lot better than you give yourself credit for.  
I wish you could see that. <3

Blaine feels that fuzziness settle over his skin again, and he’s not quite sure what to do with the praise. To buy himself time, he rustles around in his backpack and finds the discarded pack of conversation hearts left over from his English class on Thursday. He shakes the box, closes his eyes, and dumps them onto his desk, picking one by random. When he opens his eyes, he reads the message on the front and smiles. “You’re Tops,” he says, and pops the candy into his mouth.

 **Blaine** : _I think I’m starting to. <3_


	5. Chapter 4

sparklingtheaterofexcess

Ah yes, just what I signed up for. A wildly inappropriate PSA episode that will no doubt trigger the hell out of viewers with no sort of on-screen warning, and I have to wait another month and a half until it airs. So glad those six misfit teens pulled me in for this four years down the road.

[#sing](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23sing) wank for your bls [#everything](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23everything) happens so much

132 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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partfalseparttrue

**Fic Rec(s)!**

As we’re nearing closer to the Chevon Big Bang deadline, I’ve taken the time to do a little bit more research into the location of sparklingtheaterofexcess’ fic so I can make sure he’s writing all the subtle nuances with the grace and ease of a seasoned citizen.

...Okay, so my research has mainly consisted of old Zagat guides and other _Sing_ fanfictions set in the same area, but that counts as something, right? :D Here are small smattering of my favorite Chevon fics based out of the Big Apple!

As Long As We Both Shall Live\- An oldie but a goodie! Two of New York City’s hottest and most influential lesbians are getting married--and it’s up to Chase to plan the wedding of a century. Fortunately, with wedding singer!Devon ( _not_ Adam Sandler, thank God) helping at every twist and turn in the double Bridezilla diva drama planning affair, it seems like there are two couples ready to pledge until death do they part. It’s sweet and delicious, yet packed full of humor and feels. A well-rounded fic set against the backdrop of New York City that gets me every time.

Loose Lips Sink Ships\- Another oldie, but apparently the nostalgia has been in full-force tonight! Set amidst the backdrop of New York City’s Fleet Week, this fic takes a look into newly-NYC residents Chase and Devon getting their fumbling start into everything the city has to offer. Contains the friendship with Raquelle that we all wanted and never got, which is a little bittersweet upon reread, but overall the fic is a delightful glimpse into these two idiots making the beginning of their life together in New York.

A Dark World Aches For The Splash of the Sun\- I know, I know--finally something a little more recent. You should all know that this list was about twelve fics long before I realized that was entirely too much for a short fic rec! But I couldn’t leave this one off, not when it’s beautifully written, and so open and honest and in character that it makes me do little kicky-feet at my desk. Devon moves to New York without a penny to his name, running as fast as he can from a very religious family that doesn’t support him or his sexuality. He meets Chase, his next door neighbor, and teaches him a thing or two about love and spirituality and growing together as both friends and lovers. It’s everything I wanted from church (ha, ha) but never got, except when I doodled potential boyfriends on the back of the bulletin during the hymns. (Similarly, if you’re looking for another great spirituality-based fic that’s perfect and lovely and all sorts of other great adjectives, check out Search for What is True, a fic about Devon becoming the choir director at a Unitarian Universalist church--OKAY I’LL STOP RECCING THINGS NOW I PROMISE).

[#fic](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23fic) rec [#chevon](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23chevon) for your bls [#i](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23i) saved the rest in a draft. i have a problem

46 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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partfalseparttrue reblogged you:

 

[image violates tumblr copyrights]

 

[#nsfw](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23nsfw) [#ooh](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23ooh) her tattoos are pretty

31,149 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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Blaine’s phone buzzes on the desk next to his keyboard, two quick bursts that have him frowning when he glances at the name that pops on the screen. It’s a little late for a text from a casual acquaintance--especially the girl he’d taken on a not-a-date at his father’s request and then exchanged brief yet polite texts with every once in a while, such as “Merry Christmas,” and “The best Chinese food in the area is New China Express. It’s near the Kroger on 3, you can’t miss it”--let alone two texts in rapid succession. Curious, he unlocks his phone and reads the texts, eyebrows inching closer to his hairline when he sees not only the length (definitely a novel), but the content.

**Melanie** : Hello, Blaine! Sorry it’s so late, but I couldn’t sleep and was flipping the channels, and _Calamity Jane_ was on TCM. I started thinking about the joke you made right at the end, and then I started thinking about you! We definitely should get together sometime soon, because I enjoyed myself a lot last time.  
Maybe something a little more quiet and intimate? A certain dapper gentleman gave me a great Italian restaurant recommendation a while back that I would absolutely *love* to try. :)

The evening had been fine up until Blaine had offered to pay and she didn’t politely insist to split the check--which told Blaine everything about how much of a date she thought the evening was, versus how much of a not-date he thought the evening was--but even that hadn’t been enough to ruin his night since they’d had a fairly pleasant conversation and discovered some shared music interests while flicking through the car stereo on the way to the theater. No, the nail in the coffin of Blaine’s five-step “Let Her Down Easy Because Gay” plan had been the uncomfortable and morally offended look she’d shot Blaine when an older lesbian woman proposed to her girlfriend two booths down. He’d opted for Plan B at that point--Ignore In A Gentlemanly Fashion. So he can’t really see why she’s initiating another conversation; if Blaine had been on the receiving end of a Gentlemanly Ignore, he wouldn’t want anything to do with the other person.

Blaine taps the edge of his phone against his chin as he mentally composes a reply, not wanting to have three dots appear on her screen to make it seem like he is deep in thought about their going-nowhere relationship.

**Blaine** : Don’t worry, I was awake. Show Choir Regionals are coming up soon, so I’m pretty busy at the moment, hence not starting my U.S. History outline until nine o’clock the night before. Maybe some other time.

There. No exclamatory punctuation, no emoticons, nothing to lead her on. Her response comes almost immediately.

**Melanie** : No problem. Enjoy your evening.

**Blaine** : You too.

Satisfied that the potentially awkward situation is averted, at least for the time being, Blaine sets his phone on the desk again and maximizes his browser. He and Kurt had really hit a stride towards the end of Chapter Four, and he doesn’t want to lose their mojo. There’s a notification in the chat window, though, which Blaine pops out and drags to the side.

**Kurt** : _What the hell is that?_

For a wild half-second, Blaine thinks Kurt is talking about his text conversation with Melanie, until he remembers that Kurt can’t see what Blaine is doing behind the blinking cursor. Realizing Kurt must be talking about the doc, Blaine scrolls down to the closest comment to Kurt’s cursor, and tries to interpret what Kurt is asking, though it doesn’t seem like a cause for Kurt’s alarm.

**Blaine** : _Uh, change the passive voice to active voice? “Devon’s hair is stroked by Chase’s hesitant, flighty-colt fingers” It can be changed around with Chase doing the action._

**Kurt** : _Not that, your last Tumblr post._

Blaine actually has to flick back to his dash to see if he’d said anything particularly inflammatory, but no, it was just a Suicide Girls reblog he’d queued several days ago when he’d been looking up body modifications for a drabble.

**Blaine** : _What about it?_

**Kurt** : _A nude???  
I don’t follow porn blogs, Blaine!_

**Blaine** : _I tagged it!  
Also, I post and reblog smut all the time!_

**Kurt** : _That’s different, that’s written erotica like my stepmother's Scottish Highland novels that she thinks I don’t see her reading.  
I didn’t think I needed to blacklist ‘NSFW’ because I don’t follow Broke Straight Boys!_

**Blaine** : _My great-aunt loves those.  
And I’d call it more of a tasteful nude._

...Okay, her legs are spread a bit more obscenely than is strictly necessary, but the camera filter and nipple jewelry gives it a fancy touch.

**Blaine** : _Broke Straight Boys, really?  
Not even Corbin Fisher?_

**Kurt** : _...I probably shouldn’t Google that, should I?_

**Blaine** : _That all depends on what kind of night you intend to have. ;)_  
But back to the original point, I don’t make a habit of posting visual porn, if you haven’t noticed.  
Is this because it’s a girl?

**Kurt** : _Why, are you going through a Devon-esque season two sexuality crisis? :P_

Blaine glances at his phone, tries to picture his non-date with Melanie ending with something more serious than an awkward half-arm hug after he walked her to the door in the chilled November air. He thinks back to games of Spin the Bottle in junior high, sitting on a cushion in his friend Austin’s basement and desperately hoping the bottle wouldn’t land on Dianna and would, instead, land on Austin.

**Blaine** : _Absolutely not._  
Girls can be soft and pretty and look better in A-line dresses than I will ever hope to, but I’m definitely not attracted to them sexually.  
They’re just...aesthetically pleasing.  
And I pretend that awful episode doesn’t exist most of the time, tbh. Except for Chase’s *spectacular* leather pants at the kegger.

Blaine hears footsteps in the hall approaching his room, and he quickly tabs over to Facebook and acts really interested in his profile picture from three months ago when his mother opens the closed door after two short knocks on the door frame. “Come in,” he says, though it’s unnecessary as his mother is already approaching the computer.

She hesitates about three feet away, forcing him to spin around in his desk chair to look at her. There’s a slight frown pulling at her lips as she pats down her hair that’s frizzed from standing in front of the oven while cooking dinner. “Your father and I have been talking--”

Blaine tenses; those words have never meant good things coming his way.

“--and we think that you spend too much time on this computer.”

Blaine schools his features into something passive, halts his eyes mid-roll so they land somewhere just to the left of his mother’s gaze. “I’ve barely been on it tonight,” he says, as neutral as he can make it.

“Blaine, dinner was four hours ago,” his mother says, clucking her tongue to her teeth in disappointment. “You’ve been up here ever since.”

“I’ve just been talking to my friends.” He waves vaguely to Facebook on his computer, though Blaine can’t even remember the last time he updated his status. A quick glance tells him two weeks ago Tuesday, and it was just a Warblers photo he’d been tagged in.

His mother frowns, crossing her arms lightly across her small chest, though the effect is still authoritative. “How come we never see any of these friends?”

_Because they are faceless entities that live thousands or millions of miles away_. “I’ll text Trent and see if he wants to do something this weekend,” Blaine says, deflecting--a skill he’s become remarkably good at when talking to his family, especially Cooper. “We both have a big math test on Monday and could use an all-night study party on Saturday.”

His mother opens her mouth to say something but hesitates for a moment, as though she thinks better of it, then, “Are you sure a sleepover is appropriate? Given...you two?”

Blaine bristles. He can feel the hair stand on the back of his neck, and has to take his own moment of pause to temper his emotion to a more reasonable level of well-deserved aggression. “You just told me I need to do more with my friends, and Trent is a friend,” he says, stressing the last word.

“Okay,” his mother says, holding her hands up, palms outwards, “but I’m calling his mother to make sure they’ll be there Saturday night.”

“Of course,” Blaine says. He pulls out his phone to text Trent the plan, even though he feels bad about the social faux pas of inviting himself to someone else’s house for a shindig--especially since he’s barely traded anything more than pleasantries with Trent in a few months. Blaine’s mother still hovers, not flinching in the slightest, and he sighs softly before asking, “Anything else?”

“Your father and I would like you to come watch television with us tonight,” she says, crossing her arms again, pulling her elbows tight to her sides. “As a family.”

Blaine closes his eyes for a long moment before reopening them. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, hoping that will placate her. “Just let me finish this and I’ll be right down.”

When she leaves, Blaine tabs back to the doc, typing “brb :|” into Gchat before closing his laptop and heading downstairs to the living room.

The movie seems to drag on forever because Blaine has absolutely no interested in _Atlas Shrugged_ , and his father shoots him a look every time Blaine attempts to surreptitiously check Tumblr on his phone. He does get a text from Trent that the sleepover is a great idea, which he shows his parents, but otherwise Blaine sits perfectly still on the couch cushion next to his mother and tries not to think of how the internet is passing him by while he's playing the dutiful son interested in Objectivism and long-winded films. By the time the movie ends and Blaine can finally retreat to his bedroom, he barely has the strength after being On all night to do more than rinse the gel from hair and swish Listerine around in his mouth before he collapses on top of the covers.

The next morning, Blaine doesn’t get out of bed until his back aches from the strain of trying to backread twelve hours of his dashboard on his iPhone. He shivers, sliding out of the warm cocoon of his blankets and padding down the cold, wooden stairs to the kitchen. The house is quiet save for the ice maker in the refrigerator and the heater kicking on once Blaine slides the thermostat higher--his mother is at a women’s lunch and his father is golfing with some of the partners from his office--so Blaine hums “Tik-Tok” while he bops around the kitchen making eggs and toast.

His bedroom is marginally warmer when Blaine makes it back after successfully navigating the stairs while balancing a full coffee mug on the edge of his breakfast plate. He’s grateful to set them down on his desk to cool while he gathers all the appropriate items to hunker down at his computer for the precious few hours before his parents come home and make him do something else: comforter from his bed, since it’s still cold but Blaine’s flannel pajama bottoms are in the wash; iPhone from the charger, which is already down to 83% battery though Blaine’s only been awake for an hour or so; Kleenex from his bedside table because he’d forgotten to grab a napkin downstairs and doesn’t want to walk all the way down there now that he’s cozy.

Blaine wiggles the mouse on his laptop to wake it up from sleep mode, since he’d never shut it down last night. Immediately the Google Doc pops up, though it’s frozen while Blaine’s computer tries to update the internet connection. When it comes back on and Blaine scrolls down, he raises his eyebrows in surprise at how much Kurt had written in Gchat while Blaine had been away. Blaine feels bad that he’d told Kurt he would be right back and then never came back, but it seems like Kurt kept himself busy in the interim. It doesn’t look like Kurt is online yet and Blaine doesn’t blame him, given that some of these updates’ times means Kurt was still awake a few hours ago, so Blaine takes the time to read through the conversation Kurt apparently had with himself for a while in the doc.

**Blaine** : _brb :|_

**Kurt** : _Okay._  
Blaine?  
You’ve been gone for like three hours, so I’m just going to assume you fell asleep at your keyboard again. You’re going to regret when you wake up tomorrow and the spacebar is smashed into your forehead.  
I can’t scroll through low-fat breakfast recipes on pinterest any longer waiting for you, so I’m going to keep writing even though I’ve been putting this section off for a couple days.  
I’ve reached...you know...the *sex scene*. And you informed me that I couldn’t skip to a fade to black because it would cheat the readers of the emotional moment and wouldn’t fit the story, and you’re right, of course. But I’ve.  
I’ve never written a sex scene before, so I had to watch some movies for uh, “research,” first.

Blaine chokes, a giant bite of toast scraping his throat on the way down as he sharply inhales while chewing. He can feel his face flood with heat, though he’s about eighty percent sure it’s from the thought of Kurt watching _porn_ and not because he’s gulping hot coffee and wheezing. Blaine can picture it though Kurt’s face is still blurry, but he can _see_ Kurt’s hand slipping into his pajama bottoms, teasing the soft skin of his thighs because he doesn’t want to go straight for his cock, not yet, he wants to draw it out, there are still twenty minutes left in the video and the guys have only progressed as far as sensual, deep kisses while palming each other over their underwear.

A flicker at the corner of the screen announcing Kurt’s arrival in the doc works like a perfect cold shower, abating the hints of an erection Blaine had been sporting over the thought of _his best friend masturbating_ , oh God. Blaine doesn’t even know what Kurt looks like, or sounds like, but he has to snatch his hand from his own pajama bottoms where it had been steadily creeping toward the head of his dick. He shakes his head like a dog clearing its ears of water, trying to get rid of the notion though he can still feel prickling warmth in the pit of his belly.

**Kurt** : _Good morning.  
Did you, uh, get a chance to read what I wrote last night?_

**Blaine** : _Working on it! :D_

Blaine immediately judges his own use of a smilie. Is the open-mouth face too intense? He’d erased the original choice of a winky face because the innuendo was a bit much, even for Blaine, but the :D face looks like Blaine is trying too hard to get the image of long fingers wrapped around a thick cock out of his mind. He’s sure. He takes a long sip of hot coffee and scrolls to the beginning of the new section.

> _Chase moans as Devon removes his ruby red boxer briefs. It’s just as good as he remembers, and Chase salivates as he runs his fingertips down the hard planes of Devon’s chest and stomach._
> 
> _“You’re so beautiful,” Chase says, voice a hushed whisper. “How could I ever forget how much I love this, love you?”_
> 
> _Devon blushes. “Let me touch you,” he says, tugging Chase’s own boxer briefs down. “Let me put my mouth on you.”_
> 
> _Chase reclines on the bed and Devon covers him with his body. “Yes, God,” Chase says into Devon’s mouth as Devon leans in for a kiss._  
> 

 

Blaine scrolls through the rest of it, though there really isn’t much else to read. It’s very quick, and not in a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sort of way--the writing is rushed, with some confusing body positions and pronouns that leave Blaine wanting to draw diagrams just to figure out where Chase’s arms are in relation to Devon’s hips in a way that’s very different from Kurt’s often poetic, bordering on purple prose that resonates and sticks in Blaine’s chest. He certainly reads and enjoys a lot of porn on his dash just like this, but Kurt’s fic is  _more_ than what he’s written so far.There’s no emotional depth to what Chase and Devon are doing, which is abundant in every scene, in every fight, in every tentative kiss and handhold and relearning activity that Chase and Devon have experienced in the rest of the fic.

**Blaine** : _It’s a good start._

**Kurt** : _Oh God, it’s awful, isn’t it?_

**Blaine** : _No, no, I didn’t say that. It’s not awful, it’s just a little...sparse. Almost like a well-written outline rather than a fully fleshed-out scene.  
Slow it down a little, make it feel like you’re sensually wading through syrup. Let the reader feel the tension and excitement and love in that moment, like any other scene with weight in the story. _

**Kurt** : _But I don’t know the first thing about making something, you know.  
Sensual. _

**Blaine** : _My advice is to write what you think is hot, because it will come across that way._

**Kurt** : _What even is “hot”??? I tried watching some free “movies” that my blacklist didn’t catch on Tumblr, and all I could think about was what their mother would think if she knew their only acting credit was a film titled “Emaciated Twink Swallows Tattooed Load.”_  
Sex to me is rushing upstairs to the ‘ooh’ noises of a studio audience, or brief, lingering touches in black and white movies, or subtle nuances on stage that give the audience a glimpse into what happens behind the curtain.  
The sex talk I got from my dad was the printed IMDB summary of Brokeback Mountain and a lot of awkward hand gestures I’d like to bleach from my working memory.

Blaine runs his hands through his hair, breaking up the gel under his fingertips. The movement pulls at his scalp, and he hums happily at the sharp-good feeling prickling from his head and spreading down his head and into his shoulders.

**Blaine** : _I mean, I’ve never had sex either, but I have an idea of what I might enjoy.  
Like, having my hair pulled while I’m going down on my partner._

**Kurt** : _oh._

**Blaine** : _So I tend to write a lot of that into my fics._  
If I were writing this scene, it might look like:

Blaine starts typing, fingers flying across the keys, words flowing from his brain (and, admittedly, his groin) and straight onto the screen.

> _As Devon slides his thumbs under the waistband of his ruby red boxer briefs--a color, Chase notes, that goes well with his flushed cheeks and kiss-bitten lips--Chase moans, a wet, cracking, unexpected noise that vibrates from his toes all the way to the roots of his hair. Bit by bit Devon slides the underwear down until he bends over to remove the pair from his legs and Chase gets a view of his broad back, muscles and sinew dancing underneath sweaty, heated skin. That view is gone in a second, replaced with a more enticing one--at least, for the moment, because there are quite a few things Chase wants to do on and around Devon’s back, but_ later _\--of Devon’s ridiculous shoulder-to-hip ratio, and the line of soft, downy hair and ‘v’ of muscle at his groin that both happily lead Chase’s eyes along to Devon’s dick._
> 
> _It’s just as good as Chase remembers, thick and deliciously hard, all for_ him _\--God, he’s missed the shiver that runs through his body when he sees Devon’s arousal nestled in the neatly trimmed thatch of hair between his thighs. “You’re so beautiful,” Chase whispers, reverent, worshipping Devon with the pad of a thumb rubbing along the groove of Devon’s hip._
> 
> _Devon blushes, ducks his head in a naive move that Chase knows is half-true, half an act, because_ Devon _knows that Chase loves it. Sure enough, Devon starts to take the lead soon after, pressing Chase into the bed, walking him backwards while he tugs Chase’s own boxer briefs down his toned, deliciously muscular legs. “Let me touch you,” Devon says, folding his body over until Chase reclines on the bed, until Devon presses their naked bodies together, lines them up perfectly so all Chase can do is grunt and rock his hips, desperate, when Devon won’t move. Devon leans in, nips at the juncture of Chase’s neck and jaw before laving over the spot with his tongue. “Let me suck you,” he adds, a wet-hot whisper against the cooling sweat on Chase’s neck. One of his hands dances over the base of Chase’s cock, and Chase keens, arching his hips into the too-light pressure._
> 
> _“Yes, God,” Chase says, reaching up to cradle Devon’s jaw in the palms of his hands. Devon’s eyes shine, dark and glistening and brilliant, and Chase’s heart blooms hot and flowery in his chest._ This _, this right here is what he’s been missing for the past few months, the glorious warmth of spring whenever Devon is on top of him,_ loving _him. “Please,” he says, the word lost in Devon’s mouth as they breathe each other in, tasting the breath and spark on their tripping tongues._  
> 

 

**Kurt** :  _0__0_

**Blaine** : _Or something._

**Kurt** : _That’s._  
I.  
I think it may be best if you just leave the doc.

**Blaine** : _Going to have some alone time? ;)_

**Kurt** : _I’m not joking, Blaine._  
I’m uncomfortable, so please leave.

Blaine recoils--emotionally, at least, because his back goes ramrod straight in the desk chair and he goes stiff like an ice sculpture. He feels small as he types back an “okay,” wishing there was a more meaningful way to show his tail between his legs as he x’s out of the browser window, coming face-to-face with his Chevon wallpaper of the first kiss.

He hadn’t thought that Kurt would be so upset over Blaine writing in the doc. Sure, some authors are territorial with their betas, only giving them the feature to ‘comment’ and not ‘edit’ on a Google Doc, but Kurt hadn’t previously had a problem with Blaine coming in to make diction changes or copyedits without running them by Kurt first. Re-typing several paragraphs was definitely on a larger scale, but Blaine wasn’t insisting that Kurt use that paragraph instead, so he can’t see the grave offense. Still, Blaine itches to apologize, an uncomfortable sensation pricking up and down his arms with the thought that he’d hurt Kurt’s feelings.

Blaine opens his browser again and pulls up his Tumblr inbox so he can send Kurt a fanmail.

> _I’m sorry, Kurt, that I was careless and thoughtless and hurt your feelings. I hadn’t realized that rewriting your text in what I thought would be a fun exercise would actually cause you offense. It’s my fault for assuming that it would be okay without asking first, and I apologize for that.  
>  -partfalseparttrue_  
> 

 

 

 

>  
> 
> _If you think *that* is why I’m upset, Blaine, you’re not as respectful a friend as I thought you were.  
>  -sparklingtheaterofexcess_  
> 

 

Oh. Blaine shrinks into his seat. Because if it wasn’t the writing itself, that means it was the.

Sex stuff.

He crossed Kurt’s boundaries in a thoughtless and crass way. Not every teenage boy is an utter pervert who likes reading or watching sex stuff. The winkie face was too much. The “dick” instead of “throbbing manhood” was too much. Blaine was too much, and he frantically begins composing an apology.

>  
> 
> _Wow, okay, I screwed up majorly, and I really apologize. It’s not my job to push your boundaries about sex, because you set them for a reason and I shouldn’t have trod all over them. I am so, so sorry Kurt. You mean a lot to me and I don’t want to ever screw that up. More than I already have.  
>  -partfalseparttrue_  
> 

 

Blaine refreshes his dashboard for ten minutes and Kurt posts the whole time--almost aggressively, if Blaine allows himself a moment to analyze what all those photosets of Devon getting slushied  _mean_ \--but never answers Blaine’s message, which is not the ideal, obviously, but Blaine is glad that Kurt hasn’t disappeared from Tumblr entirely like he did last time.

Friends get in fights all the time, Blaine rationalizes, and come back from them just as strong, if not stronger than before. It doesn’t mean anything though Kurt means everything to Blaine.

If Blaine’s mother notices an unhealthy amount of Cherry Garcia missing from the freezer later, she doesn’t bring it up, for which he is grateful.

\---

Heavy-hearted, Blaine pulls up to Trent’s house and shifts his car into park, checking his phone for a message from Kurt before disconnecting his iPhone from his radio and crunching through the grass up Trent’s long driveway, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and laptop bag over the other. Trent greets him with a hug, which takes Blaine a little by surprise, and a plate of pizza rolls fresh from the microwave. The first one Blaine bites into scalds the roof of his mouth, yet is somehow still frozen on the inside; Blaine doesn’t know why he ever expects them to taste good, yet he reaches for another one immediately following the first.

“I started on the practice examples from the beginning of chapter nine,” Trent says, popping a pizza roll into his mouth. “But I’m still not sure I have the hang of differentials, so I ended up running to the grocery store for soda and disgusting snacks.”

“A noble endeavor, Warbler Trent,” Blaine says, placing his bags next to Trent’s by the table.

“Oh, please,” Trent says, waving his palm. “We aren’t in a meeting discussing show choir by-laws. Here, I’m just Trent.”

Blaine smiles, forgetting, for a moment, about the yawning ache inside his chest that grows ever more cavernous the longer Kurt doesn’t respond to his message. “Okay, Just Trent,” Blaine says, kneeling on the floor to unzip his duffel bag. “Let’s get our pre-calc on.”

They study for hours, munching happily on corn chips and lukewarm pizza rolls and, at one point, some deli meat straight from the package. Trent’s mother only comes to check on them once, but they’ve sort of taken over the entire dining room/living room area with snack plates and textbooks and graphing calculators so she leaves them be. At two in the morning they both hit the end point, no longer able to keep their eyes open, making dumb mistakes because a blurry ‘seven’ looks like a ‘one’. They pile dishes in the sink to be washed in the morning (though Blaine wants to insist finishing them tonight, otherwise pizza sauce will crust onto the plates) and head up to Trent’s room to change into pajamas, Blaine’s bags dragging up the stairs behind him. Blaine lets Trent take the bathroom first while he plugs in his charger and connects his rapidly-dying phone next to Trent’s bedside table.

He glances at the closed bathroom door before checking Tumblr again for a message, though he knows there isn’t anything from Kurt. Kurt has been posting on and off all day, so he’s not avoiding the internet entirely, like last time, just Blaine. Blaine is not sure if that is better or worse. On the one hand, Blaine feels the cold sting of an icy shoulder and knows he screwed up, badly. On the other, Kurt is still _there_ even if just out of his reach, hasn’t disappeared forever out of Blaine’s life with one click of the mouse.

Kurt is apparently liveblogging a season three disaster of an episode on his dashboard, and Blaine chuckles at his latest post about a lapse in Devon’s typical Only Sane Man role. Blaine clicks to Kurt’s blog and starts reading his posts from the beginning of the episode with a watery smile, not hearing Trent exit the bathroom and pad over to the bed.

“Who have you been texting all night?” Trent asks, making Blaine jump and nearly drop his phone onto the carpet. The question isn’t malicious, just curious and interested. It’d be easy to lie, just a friend you don’t know, Blaine could say and Trent wouldn’t question it because he’s nice like that, but the dam explodes between Blaine’s chest and his mouth and suddenly it’s hard _not_ to talk about Kurt, everything from their meeting to their drama to their deep connection spilling out at once, words and hand gestures and anecdotes barely able to encapsulate the best friend Blaine has never met.

“You probably think I’m weird,” Blaine says, once he begins to run out of adrenaline-laced steam. At some point he’d gone from hovering over the bed to lying down, arms crossed over his chest, head reclined on the pillow. Trent mirrors his position on the other side, except under the covers, eyes closed and chin upwards to the ceiling. “Having this crisis over an internet friend.”

“A friend is a friend regardless of whether they’re online or in person,” Trent says. “The only difference is not being able to hug them when they’re sad. It’s 2013, people are doing much more dangerous stuff on the internet than befriending someone over a popular teen comedy.”

A weight floats off Blaine’s chest, allowing him to take a metaphorical deep breath along with his next literal one.He turns over to face Trent, resting his chin in the cradle of his palm. “You think so?”

Trent cracks an eye open and shifts his head closer on the pillow, leaning in like he’s about to divulge a secret. “Have you _seen_ that video of the girl twerking in a handstand and breaking her nose when she fell into a glass coffee table?”

Blaine swats at Trent’s shoulder. “The other thing, and you know it.”

Trent smiles and resettles back onto the pillow, staring up at the ceiling as if it holds the answer to Blaine’s question. “My friend Michael that goes to Ohio State and got us a couple bottles of champagne to switch for the bottles of sparkling cider that Wes brought to the Warblers’ Christmas party?” Trent asks, almost rhetorically, though he waits for Blaine to nod in recognition before continuing. “Met him on a Digimon fansite when he was in the seventh grade and I was in fifth. We’ve been friends ever since, and have met up several times. Even uh, _met up_ once or twice now that he’s at school close by,” Trent adds, flushing.

Blaine’s not proud of the way his jaw clanks open in a cartoonish fashion. Trent actually has to lean in and slide two fingers under Blaine’s chin, closing it.

“We have more in common than you think, Blaine Anderson,” Trent says. He prods Blaine’s shoulder. “And now that we have each other’s deepest secrets, we’re required to make a blood pact or Unbreakable Vow or something. At the very least, become better friends.”

Blaine would really, really like that--the last one, specifically. “How did I not know you’re so awesome?” Blaine asks, turning over on his side and poking Trent until he does the same.

“Because it took you this long to admit that you do something stereotypically uncool,” Trent says, shrugging. “I’ve been awesome the whole time. It just took you awhile to catch on.”

Blaine grimaces, though it doesn’t seem like Trent minds all that much. “Sorry, man. I thought the other guys wouldn’t want to be friends with me if they knew how weird I was, and then the Council would vote me out and I’d go back to swaying in the background. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, no offense--”

“None taken.”

“--but then I’d never find a job or college and my parents would disown me and I’d be forced onto the streets and would have to wait for months or even possibly _years_ for my soulmate to accidentally stumble over me on the cold sidewalk outside a coffee shop and fall in love with my red nose and my adorably scruffy beard.”

Trent raises an eyebrow. “Is that a plot on _Sing_?”

“It should be,” Blaine grumbles.

“Blaine,” Trent says, clapping him on the shoulder, “you don’t have to like all the same things the rest of the Warblers like. We’re a club, not a cult. We’ll still like you, even if you’re not a dashingly handsome and outrageously talented singing robot in a well-fitted blazer.”

Blaine laughs, ducking his head. It feels nice to have an ally of sorts in the “real world,” even if Blaine really should stop thinking about his online life and his physical life as two separate entities. “You’re right,” Blaine says, and Trent snuggles into the covers with a mumbled, “I typically am,” pressed into the pillow. Blaine rolls his eyes, but starts planning next weekend’s sleepover--at his house, this time.

But first, Blaine has to fix things with Kurt. In the morning, while Trent lightly snores next to him, Blaine will pull out his laptop and google everything from gay men's health websites, to [an outdated guide](http://www.squidge.org/minotaur/classic/eroc.html) he used when first starting to write male/male erotica, to a couple of Blaine's personal favorite (which he will choose not to mention) porn videos that have lots of kissing and smiles and explicit consent and prep. He will fanmail them all to Kurt, telling Kurt how much Blaine cares about him and what they have, and he will also say that Kurt doesn't need a sex scene to "sell" his work like Blaine sometimes does, because Kurt's writing (with Blaine's edits, of course) is _something_. He will conclude with, _I hope I'm not overstepping again_ , take a deep breath, and send.

For now, Blaine pulls Trent into a hug neither one of them were quite expecting before heading to the bathroom to change into pajamas and squirt another dollop (dime-size, like Kurt has instructed ever since Blaine let slip how much product he went through in a month) of gel into his already unruly hair.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art in this chapter by Ayodelle on Tumblr!

The noise from Gchat scares Blaine when it bing-bongs loudly through his speakers. He’s had the window open all weekend in a separate tab, waiting for Kurt’s response, but it’s still a bit of a shock when he finally hears from him.

**Kurt** : _You were._

**Blaine** : _What?_

**Kurt** : _Overstepping._  
But thank you. <3  
I checked out some of the non-porn links, still red as an heirloom tomato even though everything was very clinical and not sexy at all.  
The writing guide was helpful, I will admit.

Blaine’s fingers fly across the keys as he smiles, tries to figure out where Kurt is currently in the doc.

**Blaine** : _I’m glad, Kurt. I didn’t want to upset you._

**Kurt** : _I know your intentions weren’t bad, but it still hurt._  
I ended up writing something for the scene though in a scratch notebook I found while obsessively cleaning my room this morning.  
It’s...more romantic, not sexy, but I think it works appropriately in the scene.

**Blaine** : _I’m sure it does. :)_  
Sex can be romantic too, though.  
(I’m sorry, again)

**Kurt** : _I know._  
But I’d like to discover that for myself.  
(Apology accepted)

**Blaine** : _That’s how I had to learn. Lots of late nights panicking over whether or not I was a freak for...feeling things.  
If heteronormativity had been the only problem with my parents’ sex talk, I would have been thrilled._

Blaine’s sex talk had consisted of his mother firmly yet primly telling him that he shouldn’t have sex--with the “right girl,” of course--until after marriage, and then his father sneaking him a “For Her Pleasure” condom later with a wink and a pat on his back. He’d had to do other research on his own, finding out exactly what counted as gay sex, which, it turned out, had been a lot of things that kept Blaine up at night, giving his body over to imagination and his right hand. There were things he’d discovered he didn’t like, of course, things that made him immediately close his browser window and run a virus scan, just in case. But Blaine learned how to be safe, how to make himself feel good, how to tell others to make him feel good, if and when that day finally arrived.

**Kurt** : _Not planning on sneaking any boys over, then?_

**Blaine** : _They spend most of their time pretending I’m *not* gay, so I don’t know what they would do if had a ~boy in my room._  
Because telling me to keep my door open means they know I’d like to be doing things with him behind a closed door that proper young (read: straight) men wouldn’t do.  
But *not* telling me to keep my door open means I’d be doing all those inappropriate things anyway.  
So I pretty much can’t have anyone over without there being a scene.

**Kurt** : _Ouch. :(_

**Blaine** : _It’s not so bad, since it’s not like I date anyone anyway.  
Who has time for a boyfriend when there are fifty-thousand-word fanfictions to read?_

**Kurt** : _Exactly._

After that, things turn back to relative normality--or at least as normal as things can be now that Kurt is almost finished typing a novel-length fanfiction. There’s a lot of editing work to be done, a lot of rereading to make sure that plotlines haven’t been dropped, that characterization is consistent throughout, that the ending is warranted given the rest of the piece.

The ending is what’s tripping Kurt up, and while Blaine fiddles around in chapter two to make sure the formatting is correct and the prose remains in Chase’s point of view the entire time, Kurt writes and rewrites and erases ending after ending that don’t seem to sit right with either of them. Two hours and only ten saved words later, Blaine calls for a mandatory Tumblr break to think about something other than the fanfiction for a few minutes.

-

partfalseparttrue

>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Anonymous asked: Remember when Chase and Devon had identical twins??? That was a good time._  
> 

 

 

 

Omg, do I ever. Just the other day I reread  this scorching hot fic and got a little verklempt. Bunkbeds, Anon. That’s all I’m saying.

[#we](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23we) really should bring that back [#who](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23who)’s with me?!

5 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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sparklingtheaterofexcess

Every spoiler is making me less and less excited for the end of the season. A Catfish storyline, _please_. As if anyone in this day and age would fall for “Oh, my webcam is broken.” It’s the twenty-first century. If this lasts longer than one heartfelt yet not-emotionally-resonating-with-the-audience ballad and a five minute soliloquy about how a relationship built on something other than physical appearance is the truest form of love, I’m going to quit this show.

[#i](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23i) won’t quit the show [#i](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23i)’ll just angrily blog about it for a while [#so](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23so) pretty much business as usual [#sing](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23sing) spoilers for your bls [#sing](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23sing) wank for your bls

102 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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partfalseparttrue

I just got a rude ask that I don’t intend to publish because I don’t want that kind of negativity on my blog, Anon, but I will have you know that I love working with sparklingtheaterofexcess. And he is not “inhibiting my true ability to outshine the _Sing_ writers themselves,” since that’s definitely not true in more ways than one. Also, I don’t particularly want prompts from people who insult my friends, so maybe you should find a person to write that elsewhere.

7 Notes Reblog [Heart]  
sparklingtheaterofexcess said: *slow clap*

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sparklingtheaterofexcess

I have about two thousand words left to write of the conclusion, and then my Chevon Big Bang will be finished. It’s been a ride and a half. There’ve been laughs, tears, dramatic storm-outs in ways that only an internet can provide, but I’ve made it through. Well, almost. Because I can’t quite get this thing to end. There are so many things Chase and Devon need to say and do and think about, but it’s _time_ for me to bring this piece to its conclusion. It’s haunting me. How do I wrap up an entire relationship, months of time, and almost forty-thousand words in one final scene? I’ve written and rewritten about four different outlines so far, and none of them do the rest of the fic justice. I’d pull out my hair if I wasn’t so attached to it.

I haven’t written anything new in five days, and I don’t know what to do.

[#cue](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23cue) the sad trombone noises

17 Notes Reblog [Heart]  
partfalseparttrue said: Don’t let the idea of finality haunt you, and don’t try to force the scene. Let Chase and Devon talk through you. They know how this story ends, even if you don’t.

\---

Four days before Regionals, Blaine fakes food poisoning to skip out on a double-secret-emergency Warblers’ rehearsal because he gets a fanmail from Kurt that just says, _I think I finally ended it_. He makes an apologetic hand wave at Wes and sprints toward the bathroom, ducking into the handicap stall right as lunch bell rings. Blaine opens the Google Drive app on his iPhone and waits what feels like a hundred years before the massive document loads, putting the toilet seat cover down and wiping it off with a paper towel and some hand sanitizer from his messenger bag in the meantime. There’s no way he’s getting germs on his favorite pair of uniform pants. He shrugs off his blazer and drapes it over the closed door, sits on the now-clean toilet seat, and scrolls all the way down to the end of the document.

>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Chase brushes his thumb over the apple of Devon’s cheek, wiping away the tear perched there as Devon huffs a warm breath across Chase’s wrist. Devon looks beautiful under the warm stage lights, the shadow from the empty auditorium casting him into a stunning contrast. He’s a chiaroscuro masterpiece, and Chase wants to drink his fill, kiss bruises into the hollow of Devon’s throat forever._
> 
> _“I never stopped loving you, you know., Chase says, smiling so hard his cheeks ache from the strain, but he can’t help it, feels like he’ll never stop being happy as long as they both shall live. “Even when I was so mad at you I couldn’t breathe, I still loved you.”_
> 
> _Devon hiccups wetly, eyes shining bright and hazel and magnificent with unshed tears. “You’re my always,” he says, brushing a stray hair behind Chase’s ear before pulling him in by the shoulders, nestling his nose into the dip at Chase’s clavicle. Chase feels Devon breathe him in and he sighs, clutching Devon tighter to his body, refusing to let him go._
> 
> _“I’m never saying goodbye to you,” Chase says, mouthing a kiss into the grape-scented curls of Devon’s hair. He pulls back and grabs Devon’s hands in his own, squeezing three staccato beats,_ I love you _. Outside the auditorium, the school day continues on like normal. The cafeteria serves sloppy joes like every other Wednesday, an unsuspecting freshman gets shoulder-checked into a locker by someone who forgets he was once in their shoes, the show choir celebrates another performance well-done by having an impromptu jam session out on the patio. But for Devon and Chase, nothing exists but the sway of their bodies on an empty stage, and the promise of forever nestled safe between their clasped hands with Devon’s four squeezes,_ I love you, too _._  
> 

 

 

 

 

Blaine’s heart skids to a near-halt in his chest before hammering loudly against his ribs. The ending is, well, it’s  _perfect_ , so in character and lovely and complementary to the rest of the fic that it beats all of Kurt’s other attempts by miles and miles. It’s like Blaine can see into Kurt’s wondrous, luminescent soul. Months of struggle and stops and starts have all lead to this moment.

Overwhelming. That’s what this moment is: overwhelming in the best possible way. Kurt _wrote a thing_ , a thing that is going to be loved by the entire fandom, Blaine knows, and that people will put on their rec lists years and years after _Sing_ gets cancelled and only plays in syndication on TV Land. Blaine wants a giant orange cooler of Gatorade to dump on Kurt’s head in celebration, though he is sure neither Kurt nor his laptop would appreciate that. He just wants to reach out and hug Kurt, feel his warm skin beneath Blaine’s fingers, hands, touch Kurt and hold him in his arms like Chase embracing Devon, because this is such an exciting moment and Blaine loves him so much and--

Oh.

Blaine takes a deep, shuddering gasp that echoes off the bathroom walls. He drops his phone (thankfully, into his lap) and braces both of his hands on the sides of the stall, like he needs to hold onto something or he’ll float off the surface of the Earth, a helium balloon, a dandelion lilting in the breeze.

He loves Kurt.

He _loves_ Kurt.

The sky doesn’t open up with a beam of heavenly light, nor does an arrow pierce Blaine’s heart straight from Cupid’s bow, and he doesn’t feel like a bundle of lit fireworks like every piece of fanfiction he’s read, but Blaine feels _something_ , a light bubble in his stomach, fizzy lifting drink and poprocks, and his heart _soars_ from his chest like a bird learning how to fly for the first time, shaking out its wings and trilling a happy song just from the joy of being free.

The end of lunch bell rings, bringing Blaine down to earth from whatever higher plane of existence he’d been residing on for the past few minutes. He’s in love with his best friend. He has to make it to English in seven minutes or he’ll be tardy. He’s in love with his best friend, whom he’s never met. He didn’t eat lunch but his stomach growling is not nearly as loud as the blood singing through his veins because he’s in love with Kurt, his best friend whom he’s never met, who is absolutely breathtaking inside and out--and Blaine doesn’t need a picture to know that is one-hundred percent true.

The only thing is, Blaine has no idea what to do about it.

He splashes some cold water on his face from the sink, rubbing at his cheeks like he’s awoken from a months-long nap. The walk to his classroom takes twice as long, even while Blaine walks as quickly as gentlemanly allowable through the halls of Dalton, because he misses his turn for the East Wing twice before finally getting it right. Mrs. Feinstein frowns at him as he slides in the door right as the bell rings, but Blaine doesn’t even notice her. He barely notices Nick and David exchanging raised-eyebrow looks at Blaine’s miraculous food poisoning recovery. Blaine can’t focus on anything but the heavy weight of his phone in his pocket, present and constant and causing Blaine’s legs to vibrate nervously while he waits for the opportune moment to send Kurt a message full of exclamation points.

Blaine might as well have skipped the rest of the day, since he doesn’t remember a single thing from any lectures all afternoon, too busy thinking about whether he’d prefer a fall or spring wedding and doodling “BLAINE + KURT” in a giant heart on the inside cover of his math notebook. He’s not even sure he’s in math class. At one point, he texts Trent, half-hysterical, half-giddy:

**Blaine** : I think I’m in love with Kurt.

**Trent** : Duh.

It’s probably weird, feeling this much emotion for someone he’s met online, Blaine knows, but really, he doesn’t feel any differently than he did two hours ago, before he realized what everything meant. Now he just feels _more_ , like he’d been listening to a muffled angelic choir under the ocean and finally surfaced, clearing all the water out of his ears. Kurt isn’t a siren, or a mermaid (Blaine’s life isn’t an AU fanfiction, after all), but he’s pulled Blaine in all the same.

\---

partfalseparttrue

** Fic Rec! **

Is there anything more beautiful than a long distance relationship, followers? Sure, there’s something to be said for snuggling with your cutie, eating popcorn and perhaps playing footsie while _Being Bobby Brown_ plays, unwatched, in the background (or so I have heard). But while _Sing_ did a rather spectacular job of ruining what could have been a great chance to highlight a serious, well-thought LDR, I have been thinking about fanfictions that did a successful job showing the tension, the sadness, ~~the phone sex~~ , the beautiful reuniting moment, the not taking any time together for granted.

One of my favorites doesn’t deal with the long distance aspect for more than a couple chapters, but it’s always in the back of the characters’ minds since in this AU, Chase is a flautist in the Seattle Symphony and Devon is a guest conductor (and a rather good piccolo player, too--and no, dear followers, that is not an innuendo). Devon’s time in Seattle has a limit, and while Chase at first doesn’t want to pursue a romantic relationship because of that, he soon regrets not spending every available moment with Devon while they had the chance.

I don’t want to spoil the ending, or even the middle, because it’s definitely something you’ll want to experience first-hand. Poco a Poco is a gorgeous tale of love and longing, and how two people who love each other can make a relationship work, no matter how far or how unconventional their relationship may seem.

[#fic](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23fic) rec [#chevon](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23chevon) for your bls

31 Notes Reblog [Heart]

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sparklingtheaterofexcess

I’ve been staring at the rough sketches that my CBB artist sent me for the past ten minutes with a rather embarrassing look on my face, I’m sure, because I can’t get over how amazing they are! Seriously humbled by their talent. Now I know how authors feel when they see movies based off their books. Wow.

[#the](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23the) alfonso cuaron to my jk rowling

11 Notes Reblog [Heart]  
partfalsepartture said: link me! :D

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partfalseparttrue

Regionals today!

_spongebobimready.gif_

Wish me luck!

11 Notes Reblog [Heart]  
sparklingtheaterofexcess said: Win or lose, you’re going to be amazing out there.

-

They do lose, but Blaine doesn’t feel too badly about it. He knows he nailed his solo, and even if the greater Ohio area wasn’t prepared to hear a P!nk medley by an all-boys choir, well, that was their problem. Fortunately, the other guys don’t blame Blaine for their loss. The winning choir’s original songs and can-do attitude were just too good, even for the Warblers. And sure, Blaine would have loved a most-expenses-paid trip to New York City for Nationals, but the nursing home around the corner from Dalton always loves when the boys can stop by and perform some of their favorite tunes from the forties and fifties. Besides, now Blaine can spend more time talking to Kurt, and maybe he can figure out how to tell Kurt how he really feels without putting his foot (or his keyboard) in his mouth. He’s thinking positive, all the way home on the bus, setting table for dinner, listening to his father talk about how he’d only been two over par on his golf game the other day. Until--

“Speaking of golf,” his father says, and Blaine stop chewing his polenta mid-bite when he notices his father shift slightly in his seat so he’s facing Blaine directly, “I had a chance to talk to Harold today. Melanie’s father,” he clarifies, and Blaine takes a long sip of water from his glass to swallow the food now stuck in his throat. “He said that Melanie really enjoyed your time together a few weeks ago, but that you never called her back. I didn’t raise you to treat a girl like that, son.”

That’s not what actually happened, of course, but Blaine doesn’t bother to correct him. There isn’t a point. “She was nice,” Blaine says, grabbing his knife and fork and slowly cutting at his thin piece of steak. The blade of the knife slips across the plate, creating a metallic scraping noise that makes Blaine wince. “We had a decent time, but I didn’t really feel like we had enough in common to be friends.”

Blaine’s father hums noncommittally. “She came into the office a couple weeks back to visit her father during a student holiday at school and seemed perfectly lovely. Talked to me for ten minutes about her volleyball season and how they’re going to the state championships at the end of the month.”

“You should give her another shot,” Blaine’s mother says, smiling. She reaches over as if to rub her hand over Blaine’s on the table, but Blaine snatches his away, both hands balling into fists on his lap. He’s shaking, just a little, probably some residual adrenaline coursing through him from Regionals because on a regular day he can keep everything in, hold back, but now he can hear himself shouting, “I am gay!” way too loudly for how close together they are all sitting.

“Dad, Mom, I am gay,” he repeats in a softer voice, his fingers still clenched together, white-knuckling the napkin in his lap. “I am still gay even if you pretend like that conversation several years ago didn’t happen, like it will go away if we don’t talk about it. It’s not going to go away. I am not going to be ‘friends’ with her no matter how hard you hope, or pray--” he turns to look at his mother with that, before glaring once more at his father, “--that something more will come out of it. Because it won’t.”

“That’s not what we meant and you know it,” his father says. “You’re blowing things out of proportion. We love you, Blaine.”

Blaine shoves his chair away from the table with a little more force than necessary. He tosses his napkin in his chair and grabs his plate from the table, stomping, he’ll admit, into the kitchen before depositing it on the counter. His parents haven’t moved when he returns, his mother with her mouth hanging open, his father raising his eyebrows over his glass of wine. Blaine starts to head out through the living room and up to his bedroom but stops, turns around.

“And furthermore,” he says from the doorway into the dining room, “I think I am in love with a beautiful boy I’ve never even _met_ , who knows more about me after three months than you two know after being my parents for seventeen years, and I don’t know what to do about my strong feelings about him because I may have messed up my chance with him a while back, and you would _know_ all of this if you actually cared. You don’t love me,” he says, voice bitter, hard, even though a sob tries to work its way up his throat. He pushes it down. “You love the idea of me.”

In the silence that follows, Blaine feels the exhaustion creep up on him. All he wants to look away from his mother’s shocked face, his father’s pursed lip. “I’d like to be excused,” Blaine says, and he heads up the stairs without waiting for their approval.

\---

The tension in Blaine’s house reaches an all-time weird after Blaine’s moment of honesty--or as his parents refer to it, his “little outburst”--between his father avoiding him and his mother awkwardly hovering and asking about his day, so he tries to avoid being home as long as possible. It’s harder now that Warblers’ rehearsals don’t take up all of his time and give him a good excuse, but the coffee shop a few miles away has free wi-fi and delicious biscotti, and Blaine can honestly check his dashboard and write smutty gay fanfiction anywhere as long as a little old lady doesn’t look over his shoulder while he’s talking about butts.

Besides, he doesn’t want to be interrupted on this, the most important of days: Kurt’s Chevon Big Bang posting date. The fic is entirely finished, as edited as Blaine can make it without driving himself up the wall looking for comma splices and other small nitpicky errors. It’s even formatted for AO3 and Livejournal and Tumblr; the previews have been checked, there isn’t a missing close bracket that would make the entire fic italics or anything, and the read more seems like it will work properly so someone doesn’t have to load a forty-thousand word fic on their mobile device. Kurt could post at any time today, could have posted several hours ago when they finished getting everything ready, but he’s just...waiting.

**Blaine** : _Are you nervous?_

**Kurt** : _I was fidgeting so much my dad told me to “get some fresh air, kid.” I didn’t tell him I brought my laptop bag with me, but I suppose different indoor air is fresh, in a sense._  
I don’t want to let it go.  
I feel like I’m about to throw my baby off a cliff.  
And like. What if nobody catches him? Or likes him? Or comments on how cute he is?

Blaine chuckles to himself and takes the first sip of his medium drip. It curls over his tongue, warming him from the stomach outwards, to the very tips of his fingers and toes. It’s unusual seeing Kurt this nervous. Flustered, yes. Annoyed, all the time. But nervous is something Blaine isn’t used to. If Kurt had one day to be nervous, the biggest day of his fandom career--nay, his fandom _life_ \--would be a good one. But Blaine isn’t going to say that.

**Blaine** : _Your metaphor fell apart a little at the end, there. :)_  
But I believe in you. You are going to kill it.  
You are...amazing, Kurt, and it’s high time everyone else sees what I do.  
To tell you the truth, I’m nervous, too.

**Kurt** : _Why?_

**Blaine** : _Well for starters, if this fic doesn’t make sense, everyone is going to blame me. :P_

**Kurt** : _Blaine, pls._

**Blaine** : _But seriously._  
This is your moment and I am so proud for you, but I’m sad at the same time because we won’t be talking and working together as often now.  
And I miss you already because I really, really care about you.

Blaine, pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard as though he can’t make up his mind whether or not to continue. Confessing his love means putting himself out on a limb, but _not_ confessing means slowly imploding under the weight of his feelings. He can’t bear the thought losing Kurt, growing apart even though they say they won’t, only reblogging each other occasionally and never visiting each other’s ask boxes. And what if they move on from _Sing_ and become involved in other fandoms and no longer have any common interests and only follow each other out of some sort of obligation even though half of their blogs are blacklisted by the other, anyway?

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and types:

**Blaine** : _As more than a friend, I think._

There’s a long moment of nothing from Kurt, and Blaine gets antsy, shifting his weight back and forth on the hard wooden chair and shoving the rest of his biscotti in his cheeks like a hamster saving the rest for later. If he just made things weird between them, Blaine doesn’t know what he’ll do. Probably delete his blog and start a new one in a different fandom. He’s heard decent things about _Teen Wolf_. And their abs look pretty great.

**Kurt** : _Blaine._  
If you think you’re rid of me that easily, you’re mistaken.  
I may be afraid to move forward with this fic, but I’m never saying goodbye to you. :)

Blaine doesn’t punch the air in the Lima Bean but he wants to, bites his lip so a squeal doesn’t work its way out of his mouth. He knows he shouldn’t have such a visceral reaction to a line from Kurt’s Big Bang--because that’s stupid, so, so stupid--but Kurt _likes_ him. Possibly _likes him_ likes him. At the very least, he didn’t run screaming--or the internet equivalent. Blaine likes his chances. He feels almost drunk on the idea of Kurt perhaps wanting to be more than friends, whatever that would entail from an online perspective. More heart emoticons, definitely. But he’s giddy, fluffy and warm in this crowded coffee shop with dozens of people going about their days not seeing love, true _love_ blossoming in front of their eyes.

**Blaine** : _I want to see you._  
And, I want you to see me.  
Can we...do that? On like, Skype?

**Kurt** : _I think I’m._  
Yes.  
Definitely yes.  
I need to see if you’re as dreamy in person as you sound online. ;)

A winky face! Blaine laughs, sliding into a hiccup as he tries to bottle it inside, patting down his hair with the palm of his left hand to make sure the gel is still intact. He can’t meet _Kurt_ of all people for the first time with anything less than perfect hair.

**Blaine** : _Let me just grab my headphones first. I’m sure the people around me wouldn’t appreciate eavesdropping on our conversation._

**Kurt** : _Oh, you’re out somewhere, too?  
The noise level might be too high between the two of us, even with headphones. :( _

**Blaine** : _I don’t care._  
I just...want to finally *see* you.  
Don’t make me quote “Come What May” at you.

Blaine types his Skype name into Gchat and loads up the program, waits five minutes for the update to install because he hasn’t used Skype since he chatted with his grandmother in Manila a week ago for her seventy-fifth birthday.

The incoming call startles Blaine even though he’s expecting it. He can’t really make out what Kurt looks like from his little display picture, other than that he _doesn’t_ look like a forty-year-old man. Not that Blaine had really thought Kurt was lying all this time, but the last little nugget of doubt disappears as Blaine takes a deep breath, puffs out his chest to make his upper torso look as buff as possible to the grainy webcam, and clicks to accept the video call.

Immediately the breath wooshes out of his lungs, because Kurt’s face loads on the screen and it is beautiful. _He_ is beautiful, bright blue eyes shining in poor fluorescent lighting, chestnut hair doing a little swoopy-swoop that reaches toward the ceiling and looks soft to the touch yet impeccably styled, mouth pulled into a nervous, seemingly self-conscious smile though he has nothing to be self-conscious about because my god, that _jawline_.

Granted, Blaine would still be in love with Kurt even if he looked like the hag from _The Princess Bride_ , because Blaine fell for his soul and his wit and his charm, but it certainly doesn’t hurt that he’s smokin’ hot and _so_ Blaine’s type.

They quietly stare at each other, both with headphones in but neither making any movement to speak, and it probably should be weird, Blaine knows, but it’s really not. He wants all the time in the world to study Kurt, to catalogue the way his smile makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, the way his teeth barely peek out below wide-stretched lips. With each breath, Blaine wants more and more to reach out and touch Kurt’s cheeks, see if they’re as pale and soft in real life as they are under weird fluorescent lighting and grainy webcam-quality video.

Kurt’s eyes move across the screen, slightly lower than his webcam, like he is studying Blaine too, finding something beautiful in Blaine’s wide eyes and flushed cheeks. He smiles softly when he looks straight into the webcam. Blaine looks at his too so he sees Kurt out of the corner of his vision yet knows they’re looking eye to eye. It’s not a moment later, though, that Kurt’s eyes move slightly to the left of Blaine’s face, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion, his teeth coming out to bite at his lower lip.

Kurt tilts his head slowly to the right, gasps and flicks his eyes from the Skype window to somewhere presumably high above the computer monitor.

Blaine doesn’t understand what Kurt is gaping about, open-mouthed like a rather attractive fish, until he looks at Kurt’s screen, just to the left, where there’s a boy facing in the opposite direction with a fetching black and white argyle sweatervest and a neat head of nicely-gelled hair. He quickly glances down at his own chat window, and though it’s tiny and in the corner of the screen, there’s a boy just to the right of Blaine with a blue sweater covered in white handprints, and hair so close to heaven that Blaine could reach up and touch God.

Blaine’s sure he’s making an unflattering face, chin to his chest and eyes impossibly open, but it’s not like Kurt is paying attention to the Skype window because Blaine can see he’s slowly turning around in his seat. And then Blaine is too, turning, no rush, even though his heart skitters inside his chest like a frightened mouse.

“Oh, my God,” the other boy says, blue eyes connecting with Blaine’s. The sound echoes through Blaine’s headphones, which jolts him out of his slack-jawed staring. “Blaine?”

“ _Kurt_?” His voice cracks, thin and scratchy like a middle school boy’s and nowhere near the gentle, melodic tone of Kurt’s voice. He’s in love with the sound after only four words. He lurches to his feet, a gangly, uncoordinated thing that nearly knocks over his wooden chair and yanks the headphone out of his ear when it catches on the edge of the table, but Kurt doesn’t seem to fare much better as he scrambles to stand while still half-turned around.

“Is it really--”

“I don’t believe--”

They break off, Kurt ducking his head, eyes downcast, as Blaine laughs softly and rubs at the back of his neck.

“So, Ohio?” Blaine asks, trying for nonchalant but ending somewhere more of a helium-induced squeak. He clears his throat.

“Ohio,” Kurt replies weakly. He fiddles with his shirt collar, which makes Blaine’s attention immediately snap to Kurt’s long, tapered fingers dancing at the base of his throat. Blaine has to look away when Kurt swallows loudly before saying, “Where--”

“Westerville,” Blaine says, cutting him off. He feels like he’s had ten cups of coffee instead of one, his entire body humming with potential energy flowing just under the surface.

Kurt raises his eyebrows. “That’s like two hours away from this coffee shop.”

“Eh, it’s way closer than that,” Blaine says, shrugging. He smiles, rocks back and forth a little, about to bounce off the walls he’s just so _happy_. Kurt is real and here and _hot_ and just as spectacular as Blaine always knew he would be. “Definitely worth it.”

There’s a happy-tense, silent moment in their bubble, where Blaine can’t stop staring at Kurt’s eyes and then his mouth, and Kurt’s breath seems to hitch in his chest each time Blaine’s gaze lingers on his lips. It’s inevitable really, that they come together, three steps forward for each, sliding home like magnets of opposite polarity, different yet so, so right together.

Blaine isn’t sure if he leans in first for the kiss, or if Kurt closes the distance, but he knows he cups Kurt’s hand in his jaw, sliding his fingers into the soft hairs behind Kurt’s ears as their mouths slot together. One of Kurt’s hands spazzes at Blaine’s side before it joins the other, looping around Blaine’s neck and dragging him closer. Blaine goes happily, licking along Kurt’s bottom lip until Kurt sighs and opens his mouth, clutches his fingers tight to Blaine’s shoulders before trailing them down, down, down Blaine’s back. When they reach Blaine’s waist, squeezing at the ticklish skin through layers of clothes and outerwear, Blaine gasps and pulls his head away, breathing harshly to the side of Kurt’s jaw.

“I think I’m ready to move forward now,” Kurt says, barely more than an exhausted breath into Blaine’s ear. It sends pleasurable shivers up Blaine’s spine, and he laughs, pulling back so he can nuzzle Kurt’s nose like an eskimo kiss.

“Me, too,” Blaine says, and his eyes flicker to Kurt’s lips once more before they slide together for a more heated kiss in the middle of a coffee shop in central Ohio. A few seconds later they remember that--where they are and _who_ they are and how people might react to that--and they break away, but Kurt reaches out his hand, wiggles his fingers, and Blaine grips it tight in his own. He likes the way that point of connection between them feels. It’s home.

Together, Blaine’s hand over Kurt’s, they click the _publish_ button on Kurt’s fic, watch the first reblog notification appear in the bottom right corner of the dashboard, and close the laptop.


	7. Epilogue

sparklingtheaterofexcess

**Title** : Home is Where the Heart Is  
**Author** : sparklingtheaterofexcess  
**Rating** : R  
**Warnings** : References to infidelity as canon in 4x04, but becomes AU swiftly afterwards. Sex, underage drinking, and a brief instance of homophobia.  
**Beta(s)** : partfalseparttrue <3  
**Word Count** : 41,217  
**Genre** : Romance, AU, Drama  
**Characters/Pairings** : Chase/Devon  
**Summary** : After Devon flies home from New York, Chase is sure he’ll never talk or speak again to the boy who broke his heart. Of course, fate always has a way of intervening. When Chase flies home unexpectedly to take care of his ailing father, he’s confronted with Devon, their shared past, and the broken yet hopeful possibility for their future together.  
**Author’s Note** : This was a labor of blood and sweat and a lot of late-night pizza and tears, and I’m so thrilled to share it with all of you. Many, many thanks to adam__apple for the gorgeous artwork that I want to print out and hang on my wall. Thanks to my Tumblr followers for dealing with my surly attitude these past few ~~weeks months~~ years. But most importantly, thank you to partfalseparttrue, because I never imagined that a stupid show about hormonal, singing teens could bring such a ray of sunshine and joy into my life. <3

Read More...

\---

**Unknown Number** : Does this count as our first date?

**Blaine** : We scandalized an entire coffee shop, you just asked for my phone number, and I’m sitting right next to you. So, yes?

**Kurt** : Hmm, I don’t know, neither of us asked the other here.  
I don’t think that counts.

**Blaine** : Are you asking me to ask you out?

**Kurt** : Maybe I want to ask you out.  
For coffee?

**Blaine** : For coffee.  
I buy the next round of drinks, you buy the biscotti?

**Kurt** : It’s a date. :)

\---

**Kurt** : What.

**Blaine** : What.

**Kurt** : Did they really end it there???  
Every time I think I’ve hit my new Sing low with a season finale, another one comes along to take the cake.  
I’m through.

**Blaine** : ...You’re already composing a bitchy text post in your head, aren’t you?

**Kurt** : ...No?

**Blaine** : How about I come over and distract you until all of the “dumb sheeple” on the internet go to sleep?  
I got a cheese board in the mail from Amazon today. We can go to Kroger and buy a bunch of expensive cheeses and drink some sparkling apple cider I have in my fridge from New Year’s.

**Kurt** : Will there be making out? Will you comfort me in my time of need?

**Blaine** : You know how I feel about expensive cheeses.  
(Put the nice sheets on your bed)

\---

partfalseparttrue

** Fic Rec! **

sparklingtheaterofexcess and I have been having a week of period dramas this summer. We started with _Downton Abbey_ and moved swiftly backwards in time through _Desperate Romantics_ , _The Borgias_ , and _The Tudors_. I’m trying to convince him to watch Game of Thrones with me, but so far he won’t budge.

But! I have been thinking a lot about period _fanfictions_ (and yes, I still want to write that one with Chase as a prince in an arranged, political marriage, and Devon as the traveling bard who whisks him away), and time and time again the one I come back to reread is Every Rose Has Its Thorn. I learned more about the Wars of the Roses from this fic than I did during my freshman history class, which...probably says a lot about the public schools in my town. Nevertheless, it’s a fabulous tale full of action, adventure, intrigue, and interesting lube substitutes. There’s murder, and breeches, and dashing young men riding off to battle--not to mention the beautiful prose and plot twists and turns that still leave me on the edge of my computer chair even after the fourth or fifth read.

It’s long and immersive, and the perfect thing to lose yourself in on a Saturday afternoon--if your boyfriend isn’t interested suddenly interested in watching Game of Thrones after seeing a picture of Kit Harington’s body, that is. I highly recommend this fic, and any of the author’s other period pieces, because history is a thousand times more interesting when it stars our favorite boys.

[#fic](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23fic) rec [#chevon](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23chevon) for your bls [#i](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23i) think i should be jealous of the way he’s drooling over kit’s abs [#except](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23except) i too am drooling over his abs

19 Notes Reblog [Heart]

\---

**Kurt** : The Chevon Reversebang signups just opened. Are you going to do it?

**Blaine** : I don’t know. I mean, writing based on fanart and pictures is what I’m good at, but ten-thousand words is a *lot* of words.

**Kurt** : I’ll be there to cheerlead you every step of the way.  
I even think I can fit into my old cheerleading uniform.

**Blaine** : Okay. :)  
Wait.  
Whoa whoa whoa.  
Hold on.  
Cheerleader? Uniform?!?!

**Kurt** : ;)

\---

**Blaine** : !!!!!!!!!!!

**Kurt** : What?

**Blaine** : Ah, Kurt, get online! New spoiler pictures leaked today!

**Kurt** : Let me boot up my computer, hold on.  
…  
Ah!!

**Blaine** : I KNOW!

**Kurt** : IS THAT?!?!?

**Blaine** : I *KNOW*!!!!  
!!!!!!!!!!!!

**Kurt** : Goddammit, Sing!

**Blaine** : !!!!!!!!!

\---

sparklingtheaterofexcess

** Fic Rec **

Partfalseparttrue recommended this fic series to me a couple months ago because of something I had gone through in my personal life, but up until now (with him politely pestering me just to _check it out, I promise you’ll like it, babe!_ ) I’d neglected to pick it up. Well today I was stuck in the airport with a three-hour flight delay and a couple of fics loaded on my Kindle, so I decided to give it a shot.

I’m really glad I did. The ‘verse follows Chase’s quest to come to terms with his attacker through a series of PFLAG meetings held at the local university. At first it seems like a lost cause, and a reluctant Devon thinks it’s not going to work the way Chase wants, but by the end a strong friendship forms between the three as well as the others who eventually make their way to the PFLAG meetings. A friendship that spans the test of time, and evolves into something greater than a group of queer kids banding together because they’re the only ones who understand each other. It’s a story about birds of a feather flocking together, yes, but it’s mainly about love, about acceptance, and about forgiveness.

Even if it’s not quite your cup of tea, I recommend at least giving the first fic a chance. I’m sure you’ll be hooked, just as I was.

[#fic](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23fic) rec [#chevon](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23chevon) for your bls [#if](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23if) i thought anyone at my school would come to pflag meetings i would think about setting one up

19 Notes Reblog [Heart]  
partfalseparttrue: I would come! :D Also, hurry back, pls. Don’t forget about me in New York!

\---

ourwallscomedown

**Title** : Got To Get You Into My Life  
**Author** : ourwallscomedown (sparklingtheaterofexcess and partfalseparttrue)  
**Rating** : NC-17  
**Warnings** : Bareback, comeplay, rimming, orgasm denial  
**Word Count** : ~6400  
**Summary** : The “Welcome Devon and Chase to Your New Apartment” party is nice, in theory, but after about five minutes Devon is ready to rip Chase’s jeans off and kick out all their guests. Fortunately, they seem to get the hint.

“Do you think they’ll be mad at us?” Chase asks, head turned to the side, cheek and chest and stomach pressed against the front door that had just closed behind the last of their party guests. “We _are_ being pretty bad hosts.”  
“Don’t care,” Devon mumbles into the soft hairs at the base of Chase’s neck. He slides to the floor, running his hands to the front of Chase’s body and pulling Chase’s shirt from his slacks. “Need you naked.”  
“Bossy tonight,” Chase says, working his belt through the loops with trembling fingertips. “Are you going to move us to the bedroom, or...?”  
“Nuh-uh,” Devon says, pushing Chase’s pants down, taking his briefs with them. He leans in, laps at the sweaty dip right above Chase’s ass. “Want you right here.”

Read More

[#ourwallscomedown](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23ourwallscomedown) fic [#k](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23k): comeplay [#k](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23k): rimming [#wc](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23wc): 5k to 10k [#chevon](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23chevon)

698 Notes Reblog [Heart]

\---

partfalseparttrue

** TMI Tuesday! Ask me anything! **

1986 Notes Reblog [Heart]

-

partfalseparttrue

>  
> 
> _Anonymous asked: Are the fics you write with sparklingtheaterofexcess autobiographical? ;D_  
> 

 

 

You must think we go at it like bunnies with how many fics we’ve now written together. A gentleman never kisses and tells, Anon! :o

(Let’s just say that he is very… _inspiring_. ;) )

[#he](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23he)’s going to hit me with his pillow when he sees this [#in](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23in) an unsexy way [#not](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23not) that we have sexy pillow fights #...often [#i](https://www.livejournal.com/rsearch/?tags=%23i) love my boyfriend

52 Notes Reblog [Heart]

-

“I’m going to get a bunch of weird anonymous messages now,” Kurt says, nudging Blaine with his shoulder. They’re pressed together in their favorite position: side by side on Blaine’s bed, legs tangled under the covers, propped up on pillows against the headboard, blogging simultaneously from two separate laptops. Blaine has never been happier.

Blaine scoffs. “Like that’s any different than usual.” He rubs one of his socked feet against Kurt’s calf. “Besides, people are interested in our relationship because we mean something to them. We’re like, gay icons.”

“Someone the other day told me we’re their OTP,” Kurt says, hitching one knee higher, which tilts his laptop slightly to the side but gives Blaine more access to his leg.

“We’re a power couple,” Blaine says, reblogging a photoset of nine alpacas that vaguely resemble Chase on a bad hair day. “We’re Jay-Z and Beyonce.”

Kurt hums, exiting out of his rapidly-filling inbox and closing his laptop. “As long as I get to be Beyonce.”

Blaine grins, closes his own laptop and carefully moves it to the floor next to the bed. They’ve had one too many close calls leaving the technology within reach of a kicking foot or outstretched arm. “I’m not giving that up without a fight,” Blaine says, rolling over until he’s on top of Kurt, pressing his weight down into the mattress. He casts a cursory glance to his door, making sure his father’s not hovering outside the room, but both of his parents have been far better about Kurt than Blaine had expected. At least, not openly hostile, or even passive aggressive.There’s only been once tense moment so far, the first time Kurt had come over for dinner, when everything had only been mildly awkward and stilted until Blaine’s mother caught them soapy and kissing while pretending to dry the dishes. Since then they’d done their best to avoid a repeat situation, which works fine for Blaine because it means uninterrupted makeouts with his boyfriend while his parents suddenly remember important meetings and errands they have to run.

Kurt laughs, eyes bright, challenging. “You’re on, mister,” he says, rucking up Blaine’s shirt with exploring fingers. “But I know how you get when I win. And I’d _better_ not read about this event in one of your fics a week from now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Kurt,” Blaine says, sitting back on Kurt’s thighs so he can start undoing the buttons on Kurt’s shirt. Kurt leans up for a kiss that Blaine happily gives, a quick peck with the intent of more to come, before he pushes Kurt gently by the shoulders back to the bed. Kurt huffs, but Blaine just boops him on the nose, continues working off his shirt. “Not everything needs to be a fanfiction.”

_The End!_

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imported this straight from Livejournal so apologies if some formatting is wonky! I'll fix eventually.
> 
> **Additional Notes:**
> 
> All fic recommendations and mentions in this work are actual Klaine fics that happen to be among some of my favorites, most of which are a little older because what can I say, writing in and around season two made me a little nostalgic. Blaine’s Tumblr post was rather autobiographical when he said he had a list a mile long, because there are about ten or a hundred other pieces I wanted to put on here. In order, the fics described or mentioned are:
> 
> [On the Line](http://icedwhitemochas.livejournal.com/2449.html) by icedwhitemocha  
> [The Luckiest](http://wordplayitout.livejournal.com/12008.html) by wordplay  
> [For Better or for Worse](http://sotto-voice.livejournal.com/678717.html) by sotto-voice  
> [Fleet Street Follies](http://regala-electra.livejournal.com/599636.html) by regala-electra  
> [Shatter the Walls for a New Sun](http://theonewithfics.livejournal.com/22603.html) by whenidance  
> [Singing the Journey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/257323/chapters/401675) by wintercreek  
> [Like I’ve Never Seen the Sky Before](http://missbeizy.tumblr.com/post/59559321114/like-ive-never-seen-the-sky-before-1-4-kurt-blaine) by missbeizy  
> [Separate Parts](http://gleetwinfic.livejournal.com/2813.html) by threepwillow  
> [The Fiddler and the Maestro](http://colfer.livejournal.com/47608.html) by colfer  
> [Velvet Petals, Piercing Thorns](http://a-glass-parade.livejournal.com/18718.html) by a-glass-parade  
> [Breakeven ‘verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/31905) by idoltina
> 
> Once again, a big, warm thank you to everyone whose inboxes I panicked in over the course of writing this fic. Not counting the gone-forever NaNoWriMo novel I wrote in 2006, this is the by far longest thing I have ever written, fanfiction or otherwise. I'm excited to share it with all of you, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  
> 


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